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the path back is the path forward

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less and less sand. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

about this week: there is a peril, it seems, to writing ahead these days. we had decided that this week – the first full week of a new year – we wished to use images of light as our prompts, we wished to linger on the possibility of light, of hope, of goodness. though our blogposts might stray from that as we pen them, it was without constant nod to the constant updating of current events – a mass of indefensible, unconscionable acts. we pondered what to do about these blogposts we had written and decided to keep them. we hope that – whether or not any absence of the happenings of the day, whether or not the chance these written words seem somewhat inane at this moment – you might know that those events – of corruption, illegality, immorality – do not distill or distort our intention – to bring light and hope to this new year – the first days of which bring more insanity and unnerving instability. we are still holding space for light.

and so…

on the coldest of days, in any weather, we have gone down to the beach to dig a big contractor-sized pail of sand. once you have waxed bags, sand is the first thing you need for luminaria.

we’d add a couple cups of grainy sand to each bag and then center a votive candle into it for a flame that would linger for several hours.

for a few years we’d line them up on the sidewalks along our street – on both sides – to bring light in the latest of christmas eve hours, to gather a whole bunch of people together, to celebrate around a couple bonfires in our driveway.

even on the coldest of nights, we loved our new tradition.

until the pandemic.

since then our luminaria have been set up in our backyard, small groups of dear ones or just us watching them glow into the night.

this year – a rainy eve – we lit them inside our house. and we simplified.

waxed bag, glass votive, tea light candle.

no sand.

there was no reason to believe that our luminaria might tip over or blow away. so, we simply didn’t need the sand. we didn’t need anything to weigh down the bags. they were still ever-so-captivating.

in these days now since the holiday we have continued to clean out, to sort, to ponder things to keep, things to no longer hold onto.

each and every thing we donate or sell or discard has made me feel lighter. even the tiniest bric-a-brac that finds its way into the “go” pile has given me reason to celebrate.

space.

more space.

less begets less. it’s invigorating, refreshing, addictive.

each new piece i am pondering ends up on our dining room table. it has become the staging ground for decision-making. it has become the weigh-station…the place to weigh if what is weighing us down holds weight for us.

this will go on for a while. there is much to sort. as you know, thirty-six years in one house – a house with a basement and an attic – means there is a lot tucked in all the nooks and crannies.

but there is time. and in this time during which i am touching all these pieces of the past, i have a chance to touch all the emotions of these times-gone-by as well.

and so, it becomes a time of letting go. letting go of stuff, letting go of unnecessary goopy angst, letting go of emotions that get in the way of greeting the new days of what’s next.

the three luminaria in front of our fireplace stayed lit for a couple hours. without the challenge of the wind, they burned brightly. we turned off the room lights and sat in a living room illuminated only by happy lights and tiny tea light candles.

sinking in under furry throw blankets, we reveled in this place we call home, grateful and cozy.

with less and less sand.

*****

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

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what endures. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

when it fell from the tree, i doubt that this small branch envisioned any impression its fall might make. i doubt that it held any thought of impact, for it was suddenly a singular, solitary branch, away from other like branches, away from its tree. i doubt it held any real future in its mind’s eye. it just fell.

but the snow was soft and fluffy and the branch, falling from higher on the tree, fell with just enough oomph to sink into that snow, to carve out its shape, to lay still in a casting of itself.

and even if the wind had blown and lifted up the browned leaves of the tiny branch, which – in turn – lifted and blew the tiny branch out of its molded-snow-home and it ended up no longer right there – on the trail – in front of me, it would still have left its mark.

i passed by it. and in my passing by, i saw it.

i don’t know how many others passed by this branch lodged into the snow. i don’t know if anyone else noticed it, looked at it, photographed it.

but i do know that it made an impression on me. and i remember it.

and oh, that ever-percolating ancient question of legacy, of what endures.

it would do us each good – particularly in these times and in this place – to keep that in mind. the dimmest impression – though maybe even vague, even amorphous or indistinguishable – is still an impression. it may still be remembered. it still counts. it was there. it remains there in the continuum of time.

what impression do we want to cast?

*****

BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL © 1996 kerri sherwood

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every pinecone. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

we have two pinecones on the mantel. because, well, in these times, under these circumstances, in the middle of this middle, one pinecone doesn’t seem like enough.

we enter the new year.

and we draw on the pinecone – its symbolism is hopeful with descriptors of meaning like resilience, regeneration, connection to higher consciousness, abundance, good fortune and protection. right now, there is not much i wouldn’t put on the mantel to ward off negative influences.

pinecones on the trail always get my attention. there’s something about the starkness against the snow that is simply beautiful. and, on this day when everything was so vivid, this pinecone invited me to kneel down and capture it.

if there was anything i would like to remember – every single day – this new year, it would be just that – that everything is vivid, everything is inviting our notice. i would hope to remember to pay heed to all that is around me – even the simplest of it all, the seemingly inconsequential. i would hope to remember to kneel in the snow.

for as each day ends i feel that i will find – as i sort through the hours and minutes – that it was the least of it all that made me feel most alive, the least of it all that made me know that my one, wild life includes pinecones and deer tracks, cold fog over the lake, dogga’s sighs, the holding glance from d, the suspended ninth. it includes the belly laughs, sous-cheffing next to each other, the first sip of coffee, our favorite trail. it includes new gutters and rube goldberg fixes, fuel pumps and matching flannel pjs. it includes the birds at our feeder, the squirrels on the wires, the last hugs we had from our kids, the sun lingering in a pink-peach-fire dusk sky.

sometimes the most important stuff is the least important stuff. the things that carry us from one day to the next in troubled times, the things that sustain our will and buoy our faith, the things that give us courage and let us exhale.

wishing you every pinecone.

happy new year.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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

we had a list of possibilities. it was a list of things to do, places to go before or during christmas. since our adult children and their partners would not be here, we knew we needed to keep busy, to create more hustle and bustle. missing your grown-up kids is ever-present, even when you are happy for them.

so we started a list: the botanic garden lightscape display, the garden domes, splitting a burger at a favorite bistro in a little town square across from the gazebo lit with christmas tree and menorah, a park festive with big illuminated balls of color. we included luminaria, a bonfire on christmas eve, singing carols around the piano in my studio.

as it turned out, we lit three luminaria and, on a rainy christmas eve, placed them inside, in front of our fireplace.

and we hiked on christmas day. bundled up, we took to our loop – this place where – for years now – we have sorted through life.

yesterday (which isn’t really yesterday now but is last week) we had a hard day. i wonder how many of us had a hard day. it was the day after christmas, the day when you realize all the hoopla is over, all the preparations done, the anticipation breathing a sigh. it is the day that sort of places you back into the calendar, a place that had – temporarily – been suspended in celebration, big or little.

it was on that day i realized we had not stood at the piano and sang carols.

this is the fifth year we – or even i – have not stood at the piano – any piano, any where – and sang carols.

i thought i was ready.

because five years is a long time for someone who spent most of her adult life – at christmas – creating experiences through music – for christmas.

i thought that carols would be the way back in, the easiest path back.

but somehow it got lost in whatever else we did on those two days of christmasing.

and, when it dawned on me we hadn’t, it didn’t fall gently.

in some self-indulgent raw disclosure to you, i can say this fiveyears has taken a toll. i can see now that being fired broke my spirit, that being fired triggered unmentionable earlier pain that further entrenched the breaking.

and i wonder now if it wasn’t so much about stopping my music. i wonder if breaking my spirit was actually their intention.

wow.

healing takes a long time.

and now this is the last day left to this year and we will cross into the year when i will turn 67. and i shake my head – vehemently, to unstick the clinging tarry goo – and throw a rope to my spirit that is trying to tread the water of eh-it’s-ok.

it’s done. it’s enough.

i have decided to decide.

i’m not positive that is possible; i’m not even sure that is possible.

but this piano-less existence is hard and i wonder if it is harder than what it will actually feel like AT the piano.

it won’t be carols.

but it will be something. something gut-worthy of answering the tug, something that makes me show up, that makes the walls of my studio vibrate with fortissimo and neck-crane to hear breath in the rests.

in the new year, little by little. kintsugi-ing.

and – even now – even in the middle of deciding to decide – part of me wants to add: maybe.

*****

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

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whatever it is that calls me. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

“whatever it is that calls us, that’s our path. and as we walk that path, we have a chance to shine forth who we are. it affects other people around us.” (richard bach)

we were talking about identity. in these later days, i have realized the nonsense of it all. in those striving-striding days of yore, younger versions of ourselves pushed for identity. we poked and prodded and molded and shaped and re-shaped our identity, pushing it out in front of us – as if to parade it, seeking validation. we – somehow in this society based so mightily on valuation – based our value on it. we let it rule us; we let it impact our decisions. we let it undermine our confidence. we let it stoke our egos. all of it.

and, suddenly, it all makes absolutely no sense.

so often, who we are falls prey to what we are.

he asked what we would do in retirement. i laughed. we’re already there. we’re doing it. it’s not a lot different than an artist’s path before retirement. it’s all-the-time.

we just are.

the path of artistry is not for the meek. it’s not a path of return-on-investment, for the investment of one’s heart far outweighs any yields, particularly in a society that underestimates its arts. it’s not a path of certainty, for scrappy is the only thing that is unquestionable. it’s not a path of sanctimony, for any sense of haughty righteousness must fall to the wayside of vulnerable creating. phony should not co-exist with authentic. caste should not co-exist with truthful art-making. all that pretense stuff – wrapped up in some version of identity in which one trembles when asked “what do you do?”

i’ll never forget a dinner i once attended, now years ago. seated in a fancy place with people i did not know, surrounded by those on ladder rungs i might not ever visit, i was asked that question, “what do you do?”

i answered that i was an artist…a recording artist….a composer…a singer-songwriter…a performer. the person – on that other rung – stared at me and gave a little laugh. “nooo, what do you REALLY do?” he asked.

i walk a path. i try my best to create. i try – not always successfully – to shine the truth of who i am, without bending or sacrificing the who of who i am. i try to affect others in a good way.

i know that there will be hundreds – likely, thousands – of cds with my name on them someday in some antique store. people will walk by and either give a quick second look or none at all. they won’t know who i was. they won’t know what i composed, the music i recorded and performed, the words i wrote. they won’t know what my voice – or even my laugh – sounded like.

but i will have walked a path that was mine alone. i will have joined hands with those i loved to walk alongside. i will have yearned and regretted and belly-laughed and wept. i will have realized that art – including music – is the answer to all the questions.

the deer prints will fade as the snow melts. it will be much the same for mine, i suppose.

were i able to go back to the linen-clothed table in the dining room of the country club, i should have looked evenly across the table and answered the guy who asked me what i really do, “whatever it is that calls me.”

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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may peace. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

he asked me as we hiked the river trail on christmas day. it was brisk, but we had warm coats and gloves, turtles and boots so we were cozy enough to be out there for a few hours. “what would you like to see in the new year?” he posed as we rounded the icy bend in the woods.

heidi and i had a phone chat. it wasn’t really long but she told me of a sentiment she received in a holiday greeting card. “may peace gently find you and fall upon your heart.”

we talked about how – instead of going out to seek peace – this wish she had received was one that simply – and gently – graced her with peace. we talked about how feeling peace fall upon you – like the softest snowflakes falling from a winter sky – would impact us.

and so, this.

peace.

in answer to d’s question on the trail, i listed all the things i would like to see resolved in the new year. i listed all the things i would like changed in the new year. i listed all the things i might really want in the new year – to do, to accomplish, to try, to find. i could have also listed things that might make this a better world. i could have also listed things that might bring balance back into people’s lives. i could have also listed things that might make people conscious, compassionate, moral, in their right mind again.

and peace.

there are only two more days left of this year, three if you count today. i wonder what i might do with these days as i approach next year.

i wonder what i might let go of in order to allow space for peace to find me. i wonder what i might reflect on in order to feel peace falling upon my heart. i wonder what i might commit to in order to hold that peace close, to let it simmer and grow.

*****

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

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countless stars. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

the way back north – though we would have lingered on and on save for our sweet older dogga at home waiting – was beautiful. we knew it would be; we have taken these back roads every single time we drive to chicago. following the lakefront, through little towns and along ravines, the holiday lights on our way home – in the dark with full hearts – are always magical.

to sit and spend any time with your grown children and their partners is always a gift. some people are privy to that all the time – fortunate to live in the same town or very close by, fortunate to have time together often. others of us have less time together; proximity can be challenging, so the time together with them is treasured and exponentially valued. we are always grateful to have that time.

earlier this week we had a chance to be with our son and his boyfriend. we brought all the makings for a thai chicken soup, our son’s requested “christmas lunch”. we gathered for photographs by the christmas tree and visited in the kitchen while we cooked. hearing their recent adventures, their thoughts, their latest dreams, hugging them in real life – it’s truly the stuff that this holiday is made of.

i remember the day after christmas from growing-up times. it was a day that was kind of the denouement of the season. it was a slow day, a reflection of what all had transpired, a review of it all.

we kept all the decorations up for a while back then. i don’t remember taking them down as a child. this year i think we will keep them up a bit as well…keep the light going. the trees add warmth to the cold of this season, particularly at this corrosive time in our nation.

he said that he hadn’t had his chance to put the star on the tree before he was no longer welcome. but this year it was HIS home, HIS tree, HIS star. and he owned the very-important-moment of placing his own star on his own tree, undeterred by disrespect of him or biased bigotry. it made me cry.

no longer welcome. holding a ‘welcome’ ransom is as absurd and cruel as holding the star ransom. in the christmas story, the star represents the celestial guide to the manger. but, more so, it represents light in the darkness, hope, the arrival of love. love…that which should level the field for all, that which grants grace, reminds us of compassion and inclusion, of unity, of hand-in-hand support of one another.

on the way home we talked about the lights on people’s houses, in their yards, inside their open front windows. we talked about multi-colored lights vs white lights and our own interpretation of these.

although we both grew up with multi-colored-light-families, we both always choose white lights. for me, that simplicity is part of the season. for me, it’s like a thousand stars, constellations of beacons in the darkness, of hope, of love. white lights bring the galaxies of the universe inside.

this day-after-christmas will be slow. it will be a day of reflection and rest.

and it will be time to continue to keep the happy lights lit, countless stars surrounding us.

*****

TIME TOGETHER © 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood

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intend light. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

the pitter-patter of dogga’s feet is what will wake us this morning. he has no awareness that it is christmas morning, no concern about santa claus or light or manger scenes or presents or even non-stop holiday music radio. he just wants us to wake up, to turn the coffee on, to feed him breakfast, to let him out. his routine is the same every day – every single day. it is most definitely an aussie thing, even over and above being a dog-thing.

and we’ll sit under the quilt and the comforter and sip coffee, leaning back against a pile of pillows, watching as the sun rises in the sky out our windows. the skinnytree will be lit in the sitting room off our room so that we can gaze at the happy lights in the dark room as we talk, with dogga curled on the bed at our feet.

when d goes to make breakfast, i will sit and ponder previous christmas mornings, thinking about our daughter and son when they were little, when they dove into the bed trying to wake us, to convince us to open the louvered doors into the living room where we could see if santa had actually come to our house. and then, as the years started to go by, we would wait for them to wake up, to stumble with pjs and maybe blankets, to open stockings first, to rip into brightly-wrapped gifts and hear the glee of such a morning.

it’s quiet here today. all the happy lights will be lit, the trees gleaming, the music playing. we’ll cook and eat heartily, go for a hike in the woods. hopefully we will talk – even briefly – to our girl and boy and perhaps a few other calls. maybe we’ll play rummikub. maybe we’ll have a bonfire out back. maybe we’ll sing at my piano. it will be our intention to have a day of light.

in the midst of everything – everything – going on with us, around us and in concentric circles that widen out to include our community, our nation, our world, we will continue to intend light.

because – ultimately – “goodness is stronger than evil. love is stronger than hate.” (desmond tutu)

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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now more than ever. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

it’s a week ahead of christmas as i write this.

in earlier years – for decades – i would have been consumed with shaping advent and christmas services, designing music that lifts the story of this holiday, that spreads the message of love, of light, of the season.

it’s been a bunch of years now that I haven’t been a minister of music and i trust that each church i’ve served before will again have ringing of handbells, choirs in harmony, cantatas with wonderful narrative, pipe organ music reflective of this time of light…perhaps even a ukulele band strumming some favorite carols. i hope that the music programs i started in churches in new york, florida, wisconsin all have grown and that they carry on in the same spirit of joy i brought. it is different to not direct, but the space allows for introspection and reflection.

several years ago – as a piece for one of the cantatas i composed or arranged – i wrote the song “you’re here”. as i listen to my own song – recorded as i sang it at a piano into my phone – these lyrics: and now, you’re here, in a world of hypocrisy and your love can heal us all…”

and it occurs to me that we are all mary – holding space for love, for light, for hope. even outside a tradition that celebrates christmas or hanukkah or any other specifically religious holiday – it is love – period – that can heal us. OUR love. love for one another, love for equality, love for goodwill, love for kindness. it is holding up compassion, concern, tenderness, empathy. it is recognizing brokenness and despair. it is valuing humanity itself and leading with heart and generosity.

in this season, i have found myself humming another of my own personal favorites: hope was born this night.

i hope so.

in each of us.

we need it now more than ever.

merry christmas.

alleluia.

*****

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

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so much. so little. so fast. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

though i haven’t worn them out-out yet, i have new boots. with a rubber outer, they will keep my feet dry and, hopefully, warm. as i write this – ahead of the calendar – i’m not sure what i am saving them for or why i am saving them – it is a quirk – this save-it-for-good-thing – i’d like to give away at some point – but, since it is still mine, i am still saving them – at least at the time of this writing (way ahead of today).

it seems it will be a white christmas. at least partially, with bits of snow. though it has warmed up a tad since the polar vortex came through, there are still the ever-present piles of snow in parking lots and along the edges of daily living.

so far, we haven’t walked in the snow as much this year as in past years. i’m guessing the combo-platter of the frigid temperatures and the fact that we have been consumed with – guess – yes! – ice-damming have taken the zeal out of our zealous hiking-in-the-snow. i am hoping that more mild temperatures both melt the rest of the ice and rejuvenate our outdoor juju.

last weekend – when the vortex was at its most vort – we stayed in. we wrote, we researched, we read, we decorated, we made soup, we overplayed george winston’s december and hans christian’s door county christmas albums, and we watched the denver broncos squeak past the pack. it was – frankly – too cold to go out. plus, big red had just gotten home from its new fuel-pump-installation and we were less than anxious to test it or our confidence about not having to wait for yet another tow truck. littlebabyscion was way too pleased about staying in the driveway so that iced the cake on staying in, so to speak.

and as i went up and down the stairs, picking through holiday decorations and sorting through stuff, i fell into the unavoidable review of time and life.

the viewmaster of my mind’s eye threw me back: into ice storms and nor’easters on long island, crab meadow beach in the snow, footie pajamas, my parents’ living room, the den fireplace and my growing-up family, eggnog and krumkake, midnight christmas services, caroling, luminaria around our block, open-one-present-christmas-eve, christmas in florida for a few years, arriving in december ’88 wisconsin without a winter coat, being warmly-adopted by linda and bill, our tiny babies, christmas cantatas, a donkey in the church, christmas tree lots, sewing and crafting presents, plates of cookies for santa, 3am gift-wrapping, running the videocamera on christmas morning, wrapping paper and boxes in the fireplace after chopper-dog tore them all up, toddler stocking glee, noisy morning-of mayhem, recording christmas albums in NYC, shipping gifts, shipping albums, concerts, christmas eve brats, choirs, teenagers, santa-lists, cranberry-orange relish, greenbeancasserole, too many decorations, non-stop christmas radio, and then – christmas-tree-on-a-stick, tiny trees, happy lights, more cantatas, more choirs, ukulele carols, more pipe organ, turkey roulade, luminaria and bonfires, more shipping, facetime, quieter mornings-of. and so many other things mixed in.

it has seemed to be a time of some review, a time of serious thought, pondering and ruminating, wistful rising every so often.

looking back – far and near – the long view and what-seems-merely-seconds-ago – and i step into an array of emotions that change like iridescent bubbles in the sun. held by all the memories of before, i glance in front of me, in front of us. i look forward to what’s next – even to this holiday when we are just the two of us on the morning-of, when our grown children celebrate elsewhere, happy for them they are with their dad and stepmom on this day.

if we take a walk – and if there is snow – i will turn around and photograph our prints – steps at a time we have discovered is fluid like all the rest.

the world isn’t stopping. the axis keeps spinning. the moments arrive and then quickly disappear into the eddy of our memory bank.

there’s just so much. there’s just so little. it’s all sooo fast.

good is now.

yep. i’m just gonna wear the damn boots.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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