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Category Archives: goodness


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dazzled. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

“still, what i want in my life
is to be willing
to be dazzled—
to cast aside the weight of facts

and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.
i want to believe I am looking

into the white fire of a great mystery.
i want to believe that the imperfections are nothing—
that the light is everything—that it is more than the sum
of each flawed blossom rising and falling. and i do.”
(mary oliver – house of light)

truth be told, i am pretty easily dazzled.

diamonds on the lake, owl feathers on the trail, first fireflies, an unsolicited kiss from dogdog, the rising moon, constellations pinpricking the sky, tightly-wound buds, wide-open-blossom fragrance. catching my beloved’s eye, the gesture of hand to his heart, the ninth in harmony, the sinking sun through a forest of trees, birds gathering at 4am, sunrise, surprise texts from my grown children, squishy pillows, the first coffee, a bold red, a new thermal shirt, snowfall, the first glimpse of the mountains.

as everything changes – my body, my work, my impact, my voice – it is easier to float above the difficult when dazzled a dazzling number of times a day.

i don’t know who to credit with my easy-dazzability. i suspect it’s my sweet momma. she did not have a high bar for ecstatic. she cheered on the tiniest event, she buoyed even those she did not know. her gaze took it all in…it became fodder for extraordinary within the ordinary.

but, oh, the practice of being astounded, of having your breath taken away, of being startled by that which you’ve seen many times, of holding the horizon loosely like the reins of a horse – without restraint, your knees signaling “gallop”. full-fledged immersion in possibility, unabashed glee, awed.

when the lake glitters, it feels as if the day itself has reason to shimmer.

i realize now – already – and at long last – the shimmer – of light – is always there. no matter.

*****

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peaches. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

in the category of fruit, you can kind of draw a dividing line. there are the people who love peaches and the people who love nectarines. it’s a more distinct line than you might think.

for many years, i solely bought nectarines. the smooth skin of this sweet fruit was preferred in our house back then and so, respectful of the tactile-lips-to-fruit-skin-touch-aversion, i skipped over the fuzzy peaches and went directly to nectarines.

it’s taken many, many years of nectarines, but – just the other day – i bought my first peaches in a very long time.

it did not go unrewarded.

sweet peach juice, the perfect ripeness. it was an exquisite peach. it reminded me of the scene in city of angels where meg ryan is trying to describe – in words – what a pear tastes like to nicholas cage. maybe, were i to describe the peach if would be too intimate, too descriptive. instead, i’ll say it was glorious. it was a reawakening. the next time, i walked past the nectarines.

in a time of feeling a little bit fragile, a little untethered, somewhat insignificant, the peach brought me instantly to the moment. with no guarantee of next and with the dissipating condensation of the bursting bubble from before, it was – a moment of standing in gravity on a spinning-spinning globe – an arrow pointing to right now.

nectarines provide more vitamin a, vitamin c and potassium than peaches. but the up-and-up present sweetness of a peach will stop you in your tracks. savoring. it will make you think of every sweet thing in your life. it will possibly drip down your chin while you reach for a napkin, willing the drip to stop before it hits your shirt. it will astound you.

and i wonder what could be better than being astounded on an ordinary day.

*****

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black and white prayers. [two artists tuesday]

it is all in the intention.

our old door – leaning against the house on the back deck – is not high in the himalayas. it’s not at everest base camp or, for that matter, on any scaled summit. but, like the space in which our other prayer flags fly, our deck provides a place from which to release prayers and mantras into the wind, to hope for compassion, peace, strength, wisdom, and good will.

the cracked-paint white door leans against the white lapped vinyl siding of the house. walking sticks – mostly from mountain trails we have hiked – lean nearby.

our colorado prayer flags have faded and shredded to nearly invisible. i imagine many, many prayers blown far and wide, the wind pulling at the string on the northeast side of the house, a place of distinct breezes off the lake.

i decided to make our own. they do not have the words of prayers on them. they are not specific in a colorful palette. instead, they are black-and-white, save for one white-and-black flag. sewn of thin bandanas and seam tape, i was pretty excited to string them up.

and with them, as they are beginning to catch the breeze, as they begin to get tattered and worn and sunbleached, they will begin – just as the others – to send wishes of goodness and positive energy into the world.

we aren’t going to get all hung up about color or what is printed on the flags. for us, in these times, it’s all about the intention.

*****

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the back garden. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

bunbun et al seem to love the new hosta. we added them to the back garden – along the new fence – last summer. and then bunbun’s momma added her family to the backyard.

it’s not that we don’t love hardy purple-flowered hosta. they are the hosta of my youth, the stalwart souls of shady gardens everywhere. they come back, despite pretty much anything.

but those white-flowered hosta – big solid-colored blue-green leaves – and the waterfall of white flowers bent under the weight of their blooms. i’d see them in nestled in mulch on our walks. i’d see them in peaceful garden center strolls. ahh, i was in hosta-desire.

most of our yard – prior to last summer – has come from others. plantings, cuttings, full transplants from people dear to us. so it has been less about landscape-planning and more about gratefully accepting gestures of friendship and generosity.

and then, when it was time for a fence, it became about planning.

our fern garden is tucked into the back left, over by the garage, under a canopy of many big old trees. we dug up and transplanted all the hosta from along the back fenceline to over by barney – kind of a vintage garden, old-fashioned flowers tucked in next to each other, next to our almost-100-year-old piano. it’s where our sweet peonies are and all the daylilies.

along the back fence, though, we now have various-sized ornamental grasses. switchgrass and zebra grass, blue sedge and a big piece of driftwood that tiny birds seem to love. they perch and linger, eyes on the birdfeeder, waiting their turn for the birdbath. we added three of the darker-leafed hosta. these are the ones bunbun loves. tiny bites of leaf – evidence of bunny snacktime.

each day – with the coolest watering wand and hose gifted to me by my niece – i wander slowly around the backyard, taking note of new growth in each of our plants – the gifted ones, the carefully-researched, chosen ones. it’s simplicity at its best – a slow walk nurturing all the living things back there. we fill the birdfeeders, knowing the chippies and the squirrels love them too. we clean and refill the hummingbird feeder and late dusk watch the hummer fly in to do its feeding circuit. we scrub out the birdbath daily, refilling it – just as the woman walking through the parking lot told us to do when she enthused about our purchase on the rolling flatcart and i asked her about things we should know.

it’s a slower summer. because of circumstances, we don’t know if we will be able to travel much. but that makes dogdog happy. and, in my imagination, i can hear the house wrens and the cardinals and the robins and chickadees and sparrows clapping. and bunbun’s ears perk up too.

*****

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happy endings. [k.s. friday]

i am a fan of happy endings. i would guess that’s something on which we likely agree. i mean, who doesn’t love any sort of happy ending – quiet or gushy – any part of the happy spectrum.

and so, in the past couple of weeks – with people we love close-in struggling with serious issues – i want to linger in the happy ending. perspective has slapped us upside the head a few times over these weeks and, teetering a little on shaky ground, we are holding firmly to happy conclusions.

on days when hikes generate deep pondering or the dinner table yields questions about uncertainty, googling about things we know little, we tend to list to an evening of a little couch-sitting and a movie of choice that will – most definitely – have a happy ending.

this could be a hallmark movie. or it could be my big fat greek wedding, which makes us laugh every single time, dozens of times later. it could be about time or love actually or the proposal. it could be sweet home alabama or ps i love you or the family stone. the fuzzy purple zippy dvd holder is the keeper of our cherished movies and we can pick pretty much anything from it and sink into the couch cushions, sighing.

we don’t feel like we are sticking our heads into the sand. we don’t feel like we are fancying escapism (though who doesn’t?!). we don’t feel like we are pollyanna-ing our way into the lull of sleep. we are painfully aware of the precariousness of it all.

instead, we feel like we are reminding ourselves of the possibility. we are immersing in the potential of goodness. we are restoring that place inside from which we draw strength that we might pass on to others, the place from which we can hold others close, lift them up, ask the universe for grace and their healing.

we are taking a deep breath and seeking the happy ending. remembering that they do exist.

*****

FREEFALLIN’ IN LOVE ©️ 2002 kerri sherwood, sisu music productions inc. (Note: this is not jazz, nor does rumblefish own any copyright or publishing rights to this song.)

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our parents. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

neither one of them knew what it was. clearly, they both lived in a cave before i came along in their lives. but still.

“it’s a butterspreader,” i informed them. for your corn-on-the-cob. you put the butter pat in it, hold down the handle and the curved plastic screen perfectly spreads melty butter on your cob.

they stared at me as if they had just landed on plymouth rock and – supposedly – were the ones who literally discovered new land.

in unison, the choirboys said, “i’ve never seen one of those!”

i laughed. as a non-butter-user, it doesn’t matter to me if i pull the cornbutterspreader out of the drawer, but i knew that it might matter to them – one potential butter-user-depending-on-the-day and one devoted butter-user.

my sweet momma had these kind of snazzy devices. she had the yellow metal-pronged corn thingies to hold corn-on-the-cob as well. long islanders, we were pretty loyal cobcorn eaters in the summer. back then, it was all about the biggest aluminum pot in the house and boiling water. but now, my sweet momma would have loved to see 20 cut off the ends of the cob (including the stringy end), putting the whole thing into the microwave for 4 minutes. as an alternative, we could have placed it on the grill as well – unshucked – but the microwave was a little quicker.

it was a day that kind of celebrated our parents – without our really knowing or planning it.

i carmelized the onions before i added the beer – milwaukee’s best. i knew columbus was watching, laughing with glee as i put the brats in to boil. momma jeanne said they were just like his when we made them in iowa, so we have a stamp of approval. we had beans – because my momma and my poppo never had brats or dogs without having beans. and sauerkraut because, well, 20 was raised by his momma on sauerkraut. (you don’t want to know how often he eats this.) and watermelon…well, every one of our parents loved watermelon. we were our parents – wouldabeen 102, 102 today, 90, 99, still 100 and still 88.

today’s my sweet momma’s birthday. she’s the wouldabeen 102. in the way of grief, the moments sneak up and take me by surprise. suddenly, i am pitched forward into desperately-missing-her from the ever-present missing-her. it doesn’t take much.

it’s the cardinal in the backyard. it’s telling her about the new birdbath. it’s the triumphs i want to share and the failures when i wish for a hug. it’s a cup of tea or morning coffee. it’s early rising or wee-hours-pondering. it’s chicken soup. it’s rye toast. it’s upside-down shampoo bottles. it’s blue eyes. it’s hearing “to thine own self be true”. it’s her “don’t underestimate me”. it’s “i know you can do it”.

and it’s the silly corn butterspreader.

happy happy birthday my sweet momma.

*****

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dogdog. [two artists tuesday]

younger and he would have already figured out how to get his pride bandana off. but he’s ten today and he’s slowing down a bit, taking things in stride a little bit more, tolerantly allowing for message-filled bandanas and goofy headbands.

our dogga – today – will pretty much dictate what we do on this noisy holiday. he – like so many other pooches – does not appreciate fireworks and it hurts us to see him confused and so bothered by them. we will likely spend time in the basement or succumb to putting the old air conditioner units in the windows – the first time in three years – and turning them on so there is less outside noise coming inside.

i’m not really sure why everyone has to have their own fireworks in their own yards. there are stunningly beautiful displays on the lakefront – up and down lake michigan. sitting on the rocks or at the park you can see them north and south. nevertheless, a whole bunch of neighbors and people in the ‘hood will insist on their own well before the fourth and well after, and a whole bunch of pets will be frightened.

dogdog at ten is different from our dogdog at two or four or six. these days, his wise eyes help us center, steer us away from disagreement, prevent us from a snarky word here or there. we try not to upset the dog. these days, he gets up a little slower, jumps down a little more tentatively, lets us love on him a little longer. we try not to forget we are aging with him.

it is possible that this – the undeniable love we have for our dogs and the desire we have for them to be happy – is a good reason to have them. the simplest pleasures, the slightest touches, a little bit of attention – lessons in relationship. ingredients for a happy dogga.

it’s our second fourth of july without our babycat. it’s the second fourth tripper has had without his babycat. although disturbed by the noise, they would buddy up. somehow, one would reassure the other, telepathically relaying words of comfort, soothing, “we got this”. we know he really misses b-cat. every morning he goes into the kitchen to lay with him – our angel-cat now – in their early-morning-after-breakfast tradition. he’s kept up the ritual. it tugs at us to see him there, in the exact place they would always nap together.

and so – on this holiday – this very noisy holiday – it is to the needs of our beloved dog we will turn. we’ll skip the hoopla, we’ll skip the bedlam at the lakefront, we’ll skip the jockeying for a spot on the grass in the park, we’ll skip the rocks where people set off crackers, we’ll skip the fireworks display.

because what really matters today is celebrating this aussie-dog’s birthday, his unconditional love and care for us, and what we can do to make his day a better day.

*****

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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.

*****

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both exist. [two artists tuesday]

the owl feather lay on our trail. soft down curled at its base, it was striking against the dirt of our path. we stopped.

the trail has different rules. the point is never to hurry. it is never to walk without open eyes. it is never to pass by that which draws or beckons. instead, it is to take the time, to go slower, to see what is there – in all its mysterious beauty. and, though this is the most familiar of our trails, there is not a time we have hiked it that we have not seen something new, something informative, something so beautiful – even in its simplicity – that we had to stop and photograph it.

it IS how the world is, she said. it exists just the same way as the dark exists. we were talking about goodness, the presence of goodness, the pay-it-forward of goodness. i was wistfully talking about a world that valued goodness, that lingered in kindness, that held beauty in gratitude, that was full of light and hope and the love of one another. her words stopped me.

it does exist. and, yes, it exists the same way as all the dark in the world exists. it’s a profound thought.

we were walking out to big red to go take a hike. a beautiful black crow feather lay waiting on the driveway.

next to littlebabyscion was a smaller feather, perhaps one from a robin that sang the sun up earlier in the day.

to read about owl feathers and crow feathers and robin feathers, one finds a plethora of information, some seemingly opposite in meaning. but the one thing that all feathers seem to represent across the board is that there are angels with you, there is a connection to the spiritual world.

whatever you perceive that to be, it would seem that a connection to the comfort and love of those who passed before or the eternal wisdom, the resilience, the goodness of the universe would be a good thing.

all the light exists just as all the dark.

*****

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daisy to the sun. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

though we haven’t heard from him – on his youtube channel – for a long time now, joey coconato has a thing about meadows. he was in the presence of superb forests, the most majestic of mountains, rushing water and red rock canyons, but you could feel his reaction when he came across a meadow. it was like a breath of fresh air. a deep breath. i see a meadow and, now, consequently, think of joey.

the meadows we pass on our trail are revitalizing. post-invasive-species-eradication, they are greening and the vegetation is multiplying, more quickly than we can keep up. like breck – our aspen tree out back – we notice new shoots of growth every day, new tiny blooms of color. and then – there are the daisies.

this daisy caught my attention. even more than the others. mostly, maybe, because it wasn’t facing us. instead, the daisy had its back to us. and it seemed to have turned its face to the sun, soaking up energy and warmth, in a full-on beach-towel-on-the-summer-sand kind of invitation.

there have been days when face-to-the-sun is the best we can do. our meadows, sometimes fraught with invasive species and problematic drought, need us to just stop a moment and look up. turn our faces to the sun, let the shadows drop, soak it in.

when i think about our hiking and the moments that stay with me in the bank of yearning, they are the ones in pine forests, in and amongst quaking aspen, alongside quiet streams. they are on mountains with views between branches out to other mountains, ranges in the distance.

but the moments that are really prevalent – really impactful, even in their familiarity – are also these – the ones we know best, the turn in the trail, the scent passing a certain stand of pine, and the new beginnings – rebirth – in the meadows.

and, like daisy, we turn our faces to the sun.

*****

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

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