reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Category Archives: piano


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no chocolate ganache cake. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

if he were still in this plane of existence, my sweet poppo would be 105 today.

as much as i miss my dad, as much as i would love to sit with him, to talk with him, to be quiet with him, to hug him, under the circumstances that we find ourselves in this country at this time, i would have to say i am glad he is not here.

because my dad’s heart would be utterly broken.

my dad fought against all this. he fought for the freedom of this country. he fought against fascism and authoritarianism. he fought against cruelty. he fought for democracy.

my dad’s own freedom was stolen from him when he was taken prisoner of war in WWII, his army air corps b24 shot down over the ploesti oil fields, his fellow dedicated airmen parachuting out, taken into camps by bulgarian forces.

my dad persisted through all of it – his injuries, his solitary confinement, his fear.

my dad came home, back to the country he loved, the country for which he fought and sacrificed, the country with a democracy about which he was zealous, the country where he and my sweet momma would build their own family.

so if my dad were here now, he would be crushed by what is happening. he would be crushed by the evil and deliberate intentions now set in place. he would be crushed at how his country is being severed. he would be crushed that anyone – any one! – in his family would champion any of this horror. he would be crushed that his family – his very family – had broken apart because of that. he would be ravaged by utter sadness.

my dad would be unable to celebrate his big birthday.

because no chocolate ganache cake could make it all better.

*****

LEGACY © 1995 kerri sherwood

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perennials. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

it’s the last two. the very last two jalapeño peppers. today or tomorrow we’ll make ann’s jalapeño poppers recipe and celebrate the crazy-abundant harvest of these two relatively small plants. their season is clearly over; there are no tiny flowers left, there are no miniature peppers. these plants are done producing. but, in a new discovery, i have found that we can overwinter these perennials (more easily sustained in warm climes) – if we bring them indoors before the first frost we can give them a headstart for next year.

last year we only had one plant. its harvest is what convinced us to have two this year. maybe next year it’ll be three. in these last years, we have discovered the equation of this garden – what we get out of this garden is a direct result of what we put into it. it – and the experience of it – remain part of us, for we have paid attention to it.

like artistry – if you follow the imperative – being true to who you are – and who you’ve been and who you are becoming – and not beholden to societal expectations or fiscal returns – its produce potential is crazy-abundant. amorphous, ethereal, it will shape and re-shape, build and break down, condense and stretch – you are feeding it always. in the quiet and in the noisy, in season and out-of-season, overwintering. it’s all fluid, continuous.

i wonder when i will compose again. sometimes i can feel it building – the tension of the imperative. on those days i walk into my studio and touch my piano. it’s just a gesture, an acknowledgement. but it counts. it connects me back and forward, both. it is perennial.

and i can see – they are one and the same – these jalapeños and my music.

“not even the tiniest perennial grows only to die. it comes back again and again when the season and the time is right.” (kate mcgahan)

*****

BRIDGE © 2004 kerri sherwood

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fire. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

when they were little, i was accustomed to watching their growth spurts – these moments when their tiny bodies were overcome by fiery energy of growth……a sudden few inches here or there…a burst in language or fine motor skills. childraising is a continual surprise. just when you thought you knew what you needed to know – at least temporarily – you were stymied by your own tiny child – and you became a little heap of not-knowing uncertainty. oof. it’s all a glorious mystery.

the one – and only one – daylily wasn’t giving up. all around it, blooms had tired and turned into wrinkled brown tissue, stems were drying out, its green frond-y leaves were yellowing.

and then, the growth spurt of this one last blossom – not yet willing to give up the game. it raised its head to the sun, singing.

we are watching the transition to autumn – all around us. fallow is in the offing, just off-stage, waiting for the summer to clear and sweep the wood floor of time it had inhabited. lighting is clearing the way for dark, a slow decrescendo of available daylight. sound is preparing to – soon – shut down the microphones of cicadas and crickets. the props of summer – all the heavenly hot-sun blooms and flowers and produce and herbs and the fantastic tapestry of color – the stagehands of fall are collecting them, quietly putting them to bed.

but the daylily in the front garden is having none of it.

in the middle of the transition to the quietude of fall, it is speaking loudly. it is not remaining silent. it is – in fact – screaming out to us to “remember!” it is reminding us we don’t know it all.

daylily’s transition is not without noise. it is not without color – its flame orange a loud pushback on what seems inevitable – fading fall, falling.

it is having a growth spurt of independent spirit. one lone bloom. glorious.

“instead of silence, she chose fire.” (celeste ng)

*****

IN TRANSITION ©1995 kerri sherwood

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TRANSIENCE © 2010 kerri sherwood

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where is the dance? [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

“the ink is black, the page is white/ together we learn to read and write/

a child is black, a child is white/ the whole world looks upon the sight…a beautiful sight.

and now a child can understand that this is the law of all the land, all the land.

the world is black, the world is white/ it turns by day and then by night/

a child is black, a child is white/ together they grow to see the light…to see the light.

and now at last we plainly see/ we’ll have a dance of liberty … liberty.”

(black and white – david arkin/earl robinson)

black and white was written in 1954 – the same year of the united states supreme court‘s decision of brown v board of education which outlawed racial segregation in public schools. it was recorded by pete seeger in 1956 and, with much more popularity – charting at number 1 – by three dog night in 1972.

clear messages.

the decision and the song.

at least they were.

the moral clarity of that decision is now clearly muddied in the sickeningly toxic waters – and also supreme court decision – of racial profiling in this administration’s efforts at mass deportation of immigrants.

some things are not black and white – things that fall into the grey of intelligent debate, the grey of historical perspective, the grey of interpretation that evolves with continual research seeking truth and information. memory is a bit grey, love is grey, indecision is grey, certainly apathy is grey.

but some things – in THIS democracy with THIS constitution, THIS bill of rights, THIS set of amendments – these things are black and white. clear. not bigoted. not racist. not xenophobic. not homophobic. not misogynistic.

but here we are.

what is it we wish our children to understand?

can they see the light?

where is the dance of liberty?

*****

IT’S NOT BLACK AND WHITE © 2010 kerri sherwood

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

there are plenty of trees where we hike. oaks, sycamores, birch, maples, pine, hickory, black walnut…there is quite a list. so it is no surprise that, as we are hiking, there are browned acorns, drying acorn shells and big black walnuts dropped on the trail, scattered everywhere, even dropping on us as we walk.

when i came across this branch, it was the brilliant green of the acorn that got my attention, the too-soon-ness of its place on our trail. i wondered – for a few moments – about what broke this branch that fell. it occurred to me that its natural aging, its natural place in the ecosystem of wildlife and forest had changed; this tree had somehow stress-shed this branch, this acorn.

there’s a lot of too-soon-ness…especially now, i think to myself.

and – a few moments later – i was back pondering the lists in my head…the to-dos, the worries, the problems to sort, the existential questions.

“lists engulf us – creating the illusion that our lives are full.” (plain and simple journal – sue bender)

the lists swirled and i organized them in the spaces of my brain as we walked in the early part of our hike.

but – in the way that being out in the forest, along the river, skirting meadows on a trail does – it all slowed down. and the joy of the trail took over. and, instead of the noise – internally or externally – the quiet serenity held my attention.

and this morning i find myself – once again – grateful for the sheer moment. even in this moment of the throes of a miserable cold, i am grateful for the simplicity of our givens.

“in that tiny space between all the givens is freedom.” (s.b.)

and it nudges me to simplify even more. the space of needing less, of making do, of knowing not a lot really matters.

the acorn is an ancient nordic symbol of life. my sweet momma kept a silver one in her purse and, now, so do i. maybe the acorn on our path was there to remind us.

“it’s time to celebrate the lives we do have.” (s.b.)

*****

peace © 2004 kerri sherwood

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to fly. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

“each of us is in truth an idea of the great gull, an unlimited idea of freedom,” jonathan would say in the evenings on the beach, “and precision flying is a step toward expressing our real nature. everything that limits us we have to put aside.” (jonathan livingston seagull – richard bach)

as this new school year begins i think of all the teachers and mentors i have known – those who were my teachers, my professors, my mentors, those who taught my children, friends who have been teachers, my own time spent as a teacher, instructor, director. immensely different stories, all over the spectrum.

the common denominator – to empower others to push themselves without limits, to reach their own potential, to become the best version of themselves, to fly. jonathan’s imperative.

growing up on long island meant – in the sheer sense of the word island – that i was surrounded by water. i spent a great deal of time by that water, particularly when i was able to get myself there – by bike or my little vw. i was always enchanted with the seagulls that lined our coastline, seagulls swooping and diving and soaring. the book jonathan livingston seagull was a treasured possession, kept close on the little bookshelf next to my bed. my paperback copy is waterstained and priced at only $1.50, evidence of its long tenure in my life.

even back then – on a beach towel at crab meadow beach in the mid 1970s – it was clear that the search for a life of purpose and excellence meant, also, a life of self-discovery and risk-taking. but susan polis schutz’s words “let us dance in the sun wearing wild flowers in our hair” rang for me as joyful north stars.

and so i watched and studied seagulls flying in community, flying alone. i walked the beach together with others and alone. i studied poetry with others and wrote in my tree alone. i sat on spotlit piano benches with a boom mic on old wooden stages together with others and alone.

my son recently wrote some vulnerable words. his post ended with, “…stick with it no matter what. tell your story.”

were jonathan livingston seagull around, he’d nod and think of an elder seagull’s words to him, “you will begin to touch heaven, jonathan, in the moment that you touch perfect speed. and that isn’t flying a thousand miles an hour, or a million, or flying at the speed of light. because any number is a limit, and perfection doesn’t have limits. perfect speed, my son, is being there.”

i paged through my old book. and went back to the title pages.

there in pencil i had written one of the lines i quoted above:

“everything that limits us we have to put aside.“

*****

TAKE FLIGHT © 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood

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moonglow. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

it was late night on the train platform. though we had walked from the station when we arrived, our boys dropped us off for the way back home. the train was a wee bit late and there were a few people on the platform waiting, some a bit impatiently. we were tired but not impatient, grateful to not be driving home from the city.

the clouds and the moon got together, plotting a bit of choreography. nearly full, this waxing gibbous was extraordinarily bright, backlighting the cotton balls of clouds passing in front of it. with wildfire smoke particles catching the light, an orange glow encircled the white moon peeking out, the glow much like the salt lamp emits in my studio. we stood on the platform, waiting for the train, completely captivated by the sky above us.

in recent days i have been reading old journals. journals almost fifty years old. these were the days when i passed through teenage years. when my days and nights were long and full of adventures: dancing at discos and early sunrise photo shoots, beach-camping and scuba diving, fishing and arboretums and county parks and apple-picking, skiing and my red round transistor radio on a picnic blanket. they were days of my little blue vw bug and growing-up-nuclear-family time, guitars and poetry, climbing trees and frisbee and term papers, bike hikes, the mall, my dog missi and a plethora of friends. i was often writing in my journal at 2am, wide-awake, reviewing my day, waxing poetic, loving life. it is a pilgrimage into the innocent.

my late-nights are different now, indeed, than way back when. sleep is now something i really adore, much more so than when the most minimal amount seemed – maybe – necessary.

because i am reading and reading and reading, i am feeling somewhat immersed in back-then.

these days i turn on the salt lamp that sits on the chifforobe. i don’t do it every day, but right now seems a good time for it as i hold space for the going-through of things of the past. from this vantage point – looking back – i know the shatter of innocence comes. the voice in my journal changes.

the glow stays with me as i pass by the studio door.

and now, as sleep eludes me at night, i lay under the quilt and gaze at the moon illuminating the blinds.

*****

IN THE NIGHT © 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood

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live and learn. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

“live as if you were to die tomorrow. learn as if you were to live forever.” (mahatma gandhi)

the last time they were here, we made them promise that they would keep nudging us. we urged them, “don’t let us get lackadaisical!! just keep pushing us to learn new stuff, try new things.” they laughed and promised, but i hope they know how much we mean it.

it is too easy to become sedentary about learning, to be aloof to new technology (or, worse yet, to be rigidly opposed to it). it is too easy to be mired in the-way-it-used-to-be-done or to be too lazy, overwhelmed, or afraid to take on new challenges and attempt things that are hard to grok, things that are difficult to wrap our somewhat-older brains around. and so, we are placing the onus of responsibility on our kids (though our daughter doesn’t yet know this) to make sure we keep growing, to encourage us and, mostly, to help us as we try to keep learning. we don’t have too much of a problem at this point – we love to learn new things, even if we have to wrangle with complexity or confusion.

anyway, we are committed. and we hope they will help.

it is in that very spirit of things that we have signed up for classes or taken on new software or attempted new gardens. It is in that very spirit that we have books about writing poetry or youtube how-to-fix-stuff or google new recipes and the best way to store fresh herbs or stream our son’s EDM music.

so when we walked outside and found a few gorgeous sunflowers growing next to our old garage – in the spot where we have unintentional composting – we got excited. the birds frequenting the birdfeeder several feet away clearly planted these beauties and their very tall successes got us dreaming a bit.

“wouldn’t it be just perfect to have sunflowers growing all along that garage wall in between the garage and the fence?” we pondered. it got us to thinking and googling and a little bit of research.

and there is nothing like a deep dive into sunflowers – or sweet potatoes or wellness or newly-found poets and recording artists or emissions or old appliances or yep-roofing fixes and options or hiking boots or thru-trails or history or fact-checking or antiques – to take your mind off the obvious.

albert einstein said, “once you stop learning, you start dying.”

henry ford’s “anyone who keeps learning stays young” resonates with me as well.

we saw it on the wall: “tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” (mary oliver, of course)

keep going. keep learning. keep loving. keep living.

*****

RIVERSTONE © 2004 kerri sherwood

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margin iris. margin girl. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

it took me by surprise – the iris in the middle of the cattails. we’ve hiked along these trails and through these wetlands so many times. yet we have never seen an iris here – bravely growing in the margin of the marsh.

we stopped and had a moment with the grace of the iris.

decades ago i was on a rare weekend trip with three girlfriends that ultimately changed the arc of things. our trip re-opened a door that had been slammed shut long ago. suddenly, recording my music rose from deep inside; it had seemed buried forever.

it wasn’t that I wasn’t a musician. i was. i was actively a minister of music at a church. i was teaching private piano lessons. i had been a public school choral director. i was a professional. but I wasn’t the one thing i wanted to be, the thing that felt like me, like my skin, doing what i was supposed to be doing – a recording and performing artist. that had been dashed early on – stolen by the insatiable appetite of a serial predator.

we four wandered around a small town in the corner near where wisconsin meets illinois meets iowa. they picked out an Italian restaurant for lunch – because as we wandered we talked about meatball bombers and good sauce.

but i was a margin girl – because the arts are not held – financial-reward-wise – as other professions and we had a tighter budget than most. so i didn’t feel comfortable with what i anticipated would be the cost of such a lunch at a restaurant high on a bluff in town. being a margin girl my budget was meager. i, instead, insisted on grabbing a meatball bomber at the local subway sandwich shop, encouraging them to stay with their plan to dine out. it has always been my stance that it’s not really about the food; it’s about the company.

i was the only one to buy a sub sandwich and quickly eat it out of its paper wrap at a formica-laminate table in the fast food place. but they kept me company. and then we all went to the restaurant where we were seated outside at a table with cloth napkins on a tree-lined patio. they dined on scrumptious-looking meatballs on crusty italian bread overflowing with sauce and melted fresh mozzarella with lovely stemmed glasses of wine. and i kept them company. i felt silly and out of sync with my friends, who teased me about the quality of their lunch versus mine. there was a $6 difference in the cost of the sandwich and i can’t remember the expense of a glass of wine plus tip for the meal.

i never forgot that day. it was a profound experience for me – a defining margin-moment.

years later, on our way out west, d and i stopped in this town. we did a little walking and shopping and then – very deliberately – we went to the restaurant on the hill and ordered giant meatball subs and a glass of wine. still marginpeople – particularly as artists in our mid-50s – but embracing it, proud of it, working with it instead of against it.

so the small beautiful iris tucked within the cattails in the marsh really captured my attention. a margin-dweller.

we admired her for several minutes and then we hiked on. and i quietly cheered for her. just like i cheer every time we get into our 282,000 mile littlebabyscion.

“you go,” i cheered, “you go, baby!’

*****

GALENA © 1995 kerri sherwood

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tiny garden.* [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

it is just a little corner of our yard – about 4′ x 6′ or so off the east side of our deck, tucked next to the fence.

years ago – decades, really – we used it as a tiny vegetable garden. we planted a few tomatoes and other whatnot plants and attempted to have a bit of farm-to-table (so to speak) additions to our kitchen. being a tiny, difficult-to-access place, it was hard to keep up with weeding in that garden and it eventually went by the wayside.

wildflowers seemed like a good idea then – less maintenance – a freeness – a mayhem of a garden. that was lovely until it wasn’t. weeds were prolific and my neighbor’s snow-on-the-mountain was an ever-present menace.

half a dozen years ago or so we decided to build the potting stand with some delicious barnwood and industrial pipe. we added basil, a dwarf indeterminate tomato plant, some lettuce. we had a (yes, singular) salad with our lettuce, loved our tiny tomatoes and were ecstatic with the basil out our back door.

it has morphed – this little garden. and now, through a study of the survival of the fittest, herbs and jalapeños and tomato plants fill the space – this tiny space – wrought-iron-fenced off to really define it – this space that brings me peace.

in the last days we have had some big harvesting extravaganzas. our basil plants – despite an unsure beginning when i thought they might be goners – have responded to the sunshine and the warmth of this particular wisconsin summer.

with new clippers (it’s really the little things!) i clipped off the basil and some parsley as the youtube instructed. rinsed all the leaves in a colander and prepped everything we needed to make two batches of red pesto and a giant batch of green pesto, all of which went into the freezer for the middle of winter when fresh from our garden will taste ever-so-good. we have at least nine meals stored away and that was merely the first harvest.

i simply cannot imagine what it might be like to farm most of what one eats. the sheer joy of tending and growing and harvesting – all lots of work – tedium, really – (for even this little potting corner is time-consuming and i find myself worrying about the health of the plants, our investment in them, their yield) – but yet entirely zen as i lose myself in it.

yesterday i purchased a new cilantro plant – ours bolted along with the dill. so we will give cilantro another round – it is the perfect addition to our sweet-potato-black-bean burritos and stepping out back to snip it off is ridiculously glee-inspiring. (yes, yes…you are right…it doesn’t take much to amuse us.)

early every day i step out the back door asking dogga if he “wants to water the plants with momma”. every day we use this wildly cool watering wand and top off each of the big clay pots or wood planters out there. every day i – once again – think to myself how happy this tiny garden makes me. every day – in these moments – peace descends on me like the soft morning air.

*****

* (sing to the tune of don ho’s “tiny bubbles”: tiny garden/in the yard/makes me happy/is my zen-life-guard)

PEACE © 2004 kerri sherwood

PULLING WEEDS © 2010 kerri sherwood

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