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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

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and in it you. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

many, many years ago a dear person said to me, “i see the full moon out my window, and, in it, you.”

like you – especially if you are a woman – i have had a mixture of flattering comments and detritus thrown my way. this one sentence – spoken to me so long ago – stands in one of the most complimentary spots. it wasn’t sugary sweet, nor cajoling. it wasn’t smarmy; it wasn’t even ingratiating. there was no endgame, no agenda. there wasn’t even any expected response. it just was.

i thought about this the other night while i lay awake in the wee hours. from my cozy spot, out the mini blinds to my right, i could see it – the full moon. and every time i see the full moon, i think of these words.

i don’t think that the person who said this to me knew what kind of a gift they were giving me. i don’t think that they knew i would carry these words for decades. they are tucked in, ready to be plucked and re-heard in the cassette tape of my memory at any moment. they are words of value, words of connectivity, words of great love.

for how often have you stood on the ground-dirt of this earth and looked up at the moon…knowing full well that this – indeed – is the same moon we all see, the same moon that shines on all earth, the same moon above everyone’s piece of ground? when every beloved, every family member, every friend, every person of every single social identifier looks at the moon, it is this moon. no other.

we each – here on this earth – simultaneously inhabit this very moon. we each are a part of its light, privy to its lunar cycles, part of the tide of this earth.

as we watched the olympics opening ceremony, i jotted down many of kirsty coventry’s words as the president of the international olympic committee.

she spoke the african word “ubuntu” and i – a part of the earth and of the moon – immediately was drawn to it.

for ubuntu is translated to: i am because we are.

yes.

she continued, “we can only rise by lifting others…respect, support and inspire one another.”

and “the best of humanity is found in courage, compassion and kindness.”

is not each of us held to this basic moral standard? is not each of us obligated to feel gratitude for a place on this earth? is not each of us – as seen in the moon – here to illuminate the rest of earth, to bring light to others, to be light?

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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apparently. [kerri’s blog on flawed wednesday]

it was frigid out that day. really, really frigid. a good day to bake cookies and make a big pot of pasta sauce. we added water to the old radiator pans to put a little moisture in the air. we set up the humidifier in the bedroom. we hunkered down.

we’re still in clean-out mode. we will be for a while, likely a long while. cookies mid-day are a perfect reward for keeping-on.

we are making discoveries as we go, so the going is slower than if there were no stories whatsoever, if there was no personalization. it would definitely speed things up if we felt no attachment whatsoever to any of the stuff, if we were decidedly ruthless about cutting all threads to any sentimentality.

but we can’t…well, mostly, i can’t – since most of the things in the basement are related to me. d didn’t tote decades of belongings with him when he arrived well over a decade ago. his physical baggage was simpler – a budget-truck-full. though he still willingly participates in the sluggish crawl through bins and boxes and closets and storage rooms.

so we move slowly and give credence to all the stories, the memories, the narrative, the life that whispers from each thing we unearth – short or long, loud or soft.

we read an article about the historical united states – pre-lincoln – when the mud-sill theory was rising as a way-to-be in this place – caste system heavy, subordinating women and those of non-white races. ugly and cruel, the system disregarded the stories and lives of the ‘regular’ populace, of any working class of people. not that it ever really went away – despicable stuff – it has risen its brutally hideous head once again. right here. right now.

this administration would much like to speed things up. this administration would much like to be entirely ruthless. they are honing their merciless skills every day now. there is no ‘slow’ in their vocabulary nor in their agenda, for it would seem that slow might elicit accountability or conscience and there is neither.

we don’t really understand how one gets there – to a place of such depravity. despite the somewhat-constitutional-pom-pom-waving-somewhat-marginalizing-sordid history of this country and its arc through time, we do believe that most people would like to live in harmony, most people would like to live in peace. they are the ingredients for a democracy, the recipe for the sweet life.

they’re gluten-free, these chocolate chip cookies. but you’d never know if i didn’t tell you. they are just as delicious as tollhouse cookies with wheat flour. they are just what we needed in the middle of the afternoon.

apparently, right now, the sweet life is limited to what we can create together with others who are like-minded in their desire for goodness, who are not callously embracing the unrelenting horrific.

yeah. that and these cookies.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this FLAWED WEDNESDAY

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y indeed. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

and why wouldn’t nature – this universe – ask Y?

WHY?

why wouldn’t nature – in all its magnificent glory – wonder what in the hell is going on?

why wouldn’t nature – in its most minuscule and its most vast – its most discreet and its most deafening – stare down humanity, shocked at the impunity?

why wouldn’t nature – in its chugging-chugging ability to keep on keeping on – shake its head as the people, living within its generosity, destroy it?

why wouldn’t nature – working around its infinite challenges to maintain a healthy and centered balance – be infuriated at so many unresolved conflicts, so much bigotry, so much extremist agenda?

why wouldn’t nature – in its symbiotic synergy – be aghast at such lack of cooperation, such disregard to interdependence?

why wouldn’t nature – in its innate ability to BE love – drown in tears of devastated sadness?

why, indeed.

Y?

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this MERELY-A-THOUGHT MONDAY

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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

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the trail comes to us. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

ahhh….i miss this place.

as i write this, it is a feels-like of -41 degrees outside. the actual temperature is -14. we are staying inside.

this is one of the bends in the trail i really love. as we come around this outer perimeter of the trail – a section beyond which we have explored with good boots and warm weather – i know that the stand of pines is coming. and with those pines, the scent…

we stocked up before the big freeze. going to the supermarket is astonishing each time we go, so this time was no different. we had a list – and shopped to the list – though we did buy a small bag of cape cod chips not on the list – but it was still a small fortune. we didn’t want to have to go out to resupply in the frigid arctic blast.

not to mention the fact that this time – this time in this world – oddly and horrifyingly suspended – feels overwhelming.

it’s a little bit risky writing a post ahead of its publish date, particularly now. anything could happen, it seems. and we don’t want to seem – or be – tone-deaf.

in the moments of stepping away from all that is happening – and they are merely slight moments – we seek any source of reassurance, any source of comfort, any source of grounding. we try to get good sleep, eat well, drink water, exercise. we try to find things to laugh about, things that take us away from the chaos. we hug the dog. we listen – still – to george winston’s december album. we hike when we can. we plan distractions.

but we’ve cancelled some meaningful plans, things we had on our calendar for months. things we’d been looking forward to. it was disappointing to do so, but we recognized our limits – physical and emotional – and decided to be adult about it.

yesterday, sitting on the old deck glider in the living room, looking out the front window, i tried to reason with myself about it. cancelling plans and tickets and such is not just a nod to the weather or to our personal limits.

it is a deep sigh of the exhaustion we feel as we navigate – with the pummeled populace out there – the current world, the devastation we feel about our country, the shock our hearts register each and every day as we stay as plugged in as we can manage about everything that is happening – rapidly, with no brakes.

sometimes, i guess, one just has to stay still, to sit still, to stare out the window.

and sometimes the trail comes to us and wraps us in it, hoping to assuage our fears, to calm our hearts, to stoke our courage.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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in the ant farm. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

when i came across the green plastic ant farm stashed on a shelf in the storage room in the basement – between two stacks of books – just innocently sitting there – i couldn’t help but immediately feel like it could be a metaphor to how this universe – in the biggest sense of the word – is now looking at us.

through a plastic shield, the universe stares at the goings-on on this planet – and let’s make that even more specific – in this country – and – without describing all the horror that meets the eye, the horror that is happening below the surface, the horror that is intended and about which we can only guess – so let’s cut to the chase – the universe groans in utter dismay, shocked beyond belief that we have screwed up OUR ant farm so appallingly.

because instead of ants – relying heavily on the importance and responsibility of connected community, with unselfish dividing up and equal sharing of work, with patience and problem-solving skills, their committed and unrelenting devotion to a positive and generative end result – we humans here on this earth seem to shun the values of equality or connectedness in community, lead with narcissistic and immorality-driven agenda, devote ourselves to divisiveness, cultural, status and caste, racial, gender, religious, nativistic dominance, drive toward a brutally suffocated powerless populace.

to think that an uncle milton’s giant ant farm could show us humans up is preposterous. but it’s absolutely true.

and that – to me – is pitiful.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

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anything that helps. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

it helps. this tiny fake lodgepole pine helps.

it’s dark when dogga’s cold nose wakes us; it stays dark while we sip coffee. we watch out the window and talk quietly, waiting for the sky to lighten and the sun to rise. we have happy lights on the windows over our headboard and those are lit as we wait for natural light to fill our room.

but now – in the middle of all the chaos happening, the middle of this dark period of time, the middle of sadness and disappointment and fear, the middle of divisiveness and rifts and anger, the middle of uncertainty and insecurity – now, we light this lodgepole pine. every morning. it is directly in front of us – through the single french door and across the sitting room. its light is a beacon for us, not even an exaggeration to say this mustard seed is like a lighthouse.

we’ve – of course – taken down all the holiday decorations. everything looks a bit drab in comparison to the sparkle we all add to the season. but we’ve added some more happy lights, cause, dayummm, we truly need them. on the ficus tree. on the old door that stands against the wall in the living room. in the sunroom. and candles at night – wherever we are.

you may tire of hearing of our happy lights – and i understand if you’re already there. we all have to do what helps keep us centered, keep us grounded, keep us vigilant, keep us hopeful. happy lights are what do it for us.

i remember, years ago, visiting mammoth cave. we purchased tickets for the tour that takes you down, down, down underground, where you walk the walkways of the cave, where they take a moment to turn off all the lights so that you might experience the darkness of that place. it’s bracing. i have decided i am not a cave person. i cannot imagine the intense difficulty of working in the mines; i cannot imagine exploring caves for research. some people have way more moxie than i do.

the things happening in this country are beginning to feel as dark as that immense cave system. no, that’s generous. they do feel as dark as that cave, as dark as any cave beneath any towering mountain, deep into the earth, without light.

it seems obvious we need to choose a luminary. we need to gather and stoke this light. we need to bring everything we’ve got. if we wish this sea-to-shining-sea to remain a democracy, we need to stand in the light, light up all the dark dank corners of vitriol and authoritarianism, shine light on that which is hidden, on twisted lies and untruths that protect the most powerful. we – bravely – need to speak up and speak out. we need to expose the shadows for what they are.

and if it takes happy lights to get there, then so be it.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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the notion of chartreuse. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

we recently saw a car of this color. it was a small vehicle, so it wasn’t an extraordinarily loud splash of chartreuse, but it was bracing nonetheless. i’m pretty sure this person has zero difficulty finding their car in a parking lot. kind of like people with hot pink rollie bags or wild print suitcases – as these bags come down the baggage claim ramp onto the carousel – along with hundreds of indistinguishable black suitcases – the owner happily swaggers up to the conveyor and – without a single doubt – claims their bag. maybe the owner of this car has a rollie bag like that.

no matter what, i remembered seeing this vehicle and maybe that was the point.

littlebabyscion is kind of a car like that. it is different and sticks out. not because it is fancy, not because it has any – really, ANY – bells and whistles. but because it looks different. despite the fact that it is black – i could have gotten it in copper or various other colors – it has a personality unlike other vehicles i have owned or driven. as this vehicle ages and rapidly approaches the 300,000 mile mark, i have some anticipatory grief about its tenure in our life.

big red – our 1998 ford f150 – is big, guzzles gas and doesn’t really zip around town in the same way as LBS. one has to be ever-conscious of its size, particularly in parking lots. one has to be ever-conscious of its lumbering, particularly when crossing traffic or entering highway on-ramps. zero to sixty is not its forte, so we allow a lot more space and time. big red’s personality is a bit cumbersome, a bit ungainly, but well-loved nonetheless, though every now and then it painfully surprises us with some of its 1998 parts parting ways.

even as we know we are in no position whatsoever, we find ourselves pondering what might be next. and that brings me to chartreuse.

as two artists we have always poked at the envelope. we’ll wear jeans and boots when no one else will. we’ll ride the edges of economics when most would shudder to even skirt them. we’d rather have a carried-in pop-up dinner on a trail than dine in haute cuisine. it’s a way of life to be vulnerable.

i stopped under the tree out on the trail, reveling in the color of its needles against the sky. it felt like spring – like an early march day – with only vests on instead of coats, my gloves carried in my pockets.

in the middle of the chaos that is this country right now, it felt good to breathe in some fresh air – damp with melting ice, on the edge of brisk but not quite there. it felt rejuvenating – this color. it felt hopeful.

we came home from the trail and listened to a podcast, watched a couple of updated news videos. i could feel the tiny vibration in my chest start back up again. we shook our heads at the impunity of this country’s leaders. i could feel tears welling up.

i opened my phone to look at photos i had taken on the trail, out in the forest, to look at this photograph.

and i reached out and tightly held hands with chartreuse – not just the color, but the whole notion of it.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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so much on our plates. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

it is a raw clay plate dating back to the 1940s. signed by the artist in 1947, four years after my parents married, two years after world war II ended. the painting depicts a scene that i would guess most of us might yearn for: idyllic, quiet, a dirt driveway to land next to a lake, a house, a barn, aspen trees. really simple. really beautiful.

along the bottom edge of this plate – its paint peeling from lack of firing finish – is what appears the artist’s monogram logo and the number 47, clearly the year this decorative plate was completed.

and therein is the problem.

for there will never – in our lifetime – be a number more burdened by foul memories. there will never be a number that has caused more pain, more divisiveness, more rifts, more sadistic cruelty, more self-serving agenda-ized policy that undermines the potential goodness of this country, even in the context of the greater global world.

that number – i wish it was not on this plate.

just like i erase the word “great” every time i write it. just like the word “tremendous”, the word “ballroom”, the acronym “maga”, the word “woke”, the words “better than anyone else”, the word “fraud”, the word “pardon”. just like red hats. just like the american flag. just like the thought of congress or the supreme court. just like alternative facts and people talking over, talking over, talking over others asking questions. i wonder how i might ask others if they want frozen water in their glasses without using the word “ice”. i wonder how we will fare in the future with so much ptsd on our plates.

there will be fallout from all this. and much of it will cause a great number of people in this country much long-term angst. not withstanding actual suffering of people far and wide, we will suffer the use of words, the turn of phrase, the sight of the white house, viewing the vast footage taken at the nation’s capitol on january 6, 2021. we will suffer the stripping of rights, the stripping of conscience, the stripping of truth, the stripping of sheer morality, the stripping of democracy. we will shudder to hear recordings of certain voices; we will turn away from the video of people’s faces twisted – contorted – by hatred, vitriol, bigotry.

we will need time to heal. we will need quiet to heal.

i look at this plate and wish i were there.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this MERELY-A-THOUGHT MONDAY

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