reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Category Archives: two artists tuesday


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cammy. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

we commonly talk for our dogga. we talked for our babycat as well. we talk for wildlife in the woods. we talk for other drivers on the road. i talk for my toes. d talks for his knees. we pretty much animate anything.

including this veiled chameleon.

we rarely go to pet stores. but when we do go to a pet shop, it is with our hearts on our sleeves. this time the chameleon captured us.

i realize that he is being fed and watered (hopefully) properly and that his environment will be changed as he grows, but i couldn’t help but feel a sense of sadness as i watched him clawing at the glass of his terrarium.

as if he could understand what was happening in this chaotic world – sensing it perhaps – we stood with him, inches away, and interpreted the look on his face.

and in the strange way that all of us inhabitants of this earth somehow align, i was feelin’ it too. rejecting the idea that i was projecting my thoughts onto this small reptile, i told him that we were on the same page – with our shock, our dismay, our pointing fingers, our plea for a plan to make the chaos stop. we were one for these moments – cammy and me – and, in these same moments, i was reminded – once again – of how all the creatures – interconnected – human and critter – on this good earth could care about each other.

it’s been balmy the last couple days and we have been out on the trail, immersed in the beauty of the whole tapestry. i would bet that all of the people involved in the destruction of this country aren’t outside much. they have little to no perspective about how small they really are. somehow the almighty dollar has usurped any sense of camaraderie with the beings of the universe, somehow the climactic high of power has decimated their hearts and consciences. somehow they have lost it all while trying to seize it all.

we visited cammy again before we left the store. i whispered to him that i wouldn’t forget him. he whispered back the same. we exchanged a “what-now???” look that doubled as “get-me-outta-here”.

we walked toward the double doors that opened as we approached just as cammy went back to clawing the glass.

*****

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the american dream. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

we spoke quietly to them as we hiked. they seemed to be everywhere that day…on the trail, in the brush, by the river. they watched us; we watched them. we told them they could trust us, that we would not hurt them in any way. they didn’t flee, instead, aware of us, grazing a bit, snuffling in the snow. it is my hope that they felt no danger from us. when we hiked on, they moseyed, unhurried, beautiful innocence graceful through the snowy woods.

no danger. it was not that long ago when we did not feel impending danger.

all that has changed. rapidly.

and suddenly, we are thrust into a country where all is at peril. we are standing and staring at the unchecked mob taking over our democracy, at the purely evil intention permeating the administration that is destroying every vestige of the american constitution.

we watched hgtv the other night. there was a couple looking for a house in north carolina, specifically in rocky mount – where martin luther king, jr first spoke his “i have a dream” speech. as they visited houses, they remarked excitedly about one, “this is the american dream!!”

i grimaced. for what – exactly – is now the american dream?

is it destroying the foundation upon which this country was built? is it the annihilation of civil rights, of freedoms, of the helping programs in this country? is it stripping opportunity-for-all in favor of opportunity-for-only-a-very-few? is it adding to the income of a few billionaires, while decimating the lives of billions of ordinary folks, undermining any stability they might have had? is it aligning with authoritarians around the world, ignoring long-time allies and neighbors? is it gleefully watching people die in wars, in famine, in disease while shaving aid so that the wealthiest among us might not participate in paying taxes? is it deporting millions of innocent people who have been seeking a better life, contributing to our communities? is it living inside – and capitulating to – the maniacal sickness in the soul-less minds of the new administration? is it standing by, silently applauding your own bigotry? what exactly is the american dream?

if you are not deeply embarrassed by what is happening in these un-united states, i have no idea what is in your heart.

we are all at risk. there is impending danger.

“every life is a march from innocence, through temptation, to virtue or vice.” (lyman abbott)

we are watching you – those of you who voted for this desecration of our country, for the scourge running the show.

so, which is it?

is your american dream virtue or vice?

*****

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count on dogga. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

sometimes – these days – it is simply his smile that keeps us grounded.

sometimes – these days – it is a belly-belly or a dogga kiss that helps us feel our feet, centered in our home.

sometimes – these days – it is his sensitivity to the tenor of the room that keeps us from getting too loud, too angry, too upset.

a few days ago i had a very hard day. i’m guessing i am not out of the ordinary; i’m guessing this is not unusual – these days.

i felt – particularly after my revelations from my call with my dear old friend from new york – that we were on a tiny island, out of balance.

we – like you, i’m sure – have been through so much in the last few years. and, i guess, because we have been coast-ers (d the west, me the east) – more easily candid, despite whatever others’ reactions are to our tales – woe, included – we have shared about them – with family, with friends, with whomever chooses to read our blogs.

but we have found that sharing our intense feelings can be disconcerting. there is most definitely this thing in this part of the land that dictates what you share. if you don’t wish to tell how you feel, you just simply ignore the question about how you feel. it’s a weird phenomenon. and frustrating. it is hard to be an open book when others don’t crack open their binding.

and so – the other day – outside of the pure constant stream of consciousness d and i share with each other – i was pining for shared deep conversation, for shared grief, for the shared pondering of unanswerable questions, unfathomable challenges. i did not want pity. i wanted two-way sharing, raw human interaction. i wanted to cry and scream – both. i did cry. watching dogga watch me prevented me from screaming.

it feels absolute that we need to be in this chaos together. we need to join together in like-mindedness and push back against the continued takeover of our country. we need to share the gut-wrenching sorrow of losing family and friends to this pervasive illness of extremism. we need to share our worries about our future and the future of our children and our children’s children.

bottom line? we need to talk. because actually talking about it all doesn’t make it worse. it quite possibly helps. you know, the meeting-together, the walking-in-another’s-shoes thing, the heartfelt compassion, the reality check, the let’s-sort-this-together, the we-are-here-for-you. the two-way street.

it makes me absolutely crazy when people act like nothing is happening. i want to beg, “open your eyes! we need to talk about this!”

but – instead – there are a few we share with, a few we trust with our deepest musings, our biggest fears, the trauma we are all enduring, what is really happening in our very own personal lives. the rest – like many – we filter.

and in that very short list of whole-heart-sharers, dogga is one of them. he holds things in confidence and we can always count on him to react emotionally and with – seeming – empathy. like he gets it.

and then he smiles his getting-older smile at us – holding our hearts and reminding us that his unconditional love is unconditional.

time after time he saves the day. even in these days. every single day.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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cracked. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

i’m a window-seat-er.

it’s not just because i am prone to motion sickness; it is magical to look out the window at the earth passing below us. and now, the window next to me looked cracked, as tiny droplets skirted across. so much to look at in lieu of staring at a tablet or screen.

i am the geek taking pictures out the window of the plane – as if it was my first time flying.

but i don’t care. i take pictures anyway.

a few days ago i spent over two hours on the phone with an old friend i hadn’t spoken with for – if i’m remembering correctly – over four decades. in that strange way that you can pick up where you left off – despite the fact that there are blanks spanning decades – it felt like we had just danced the night away together, laughing and talking, at one of the discos on long island… just like we did back in the day.

she and i met at college and were instantly friends. i was pretty naive back then, but she had a savvy i could draw from and we had many adventures together.

it was a joy to be on the phone together again – i remember hours tethered to the wall, making plans or discussing crushes. this time i wandered around the house, chatting and trying to picture her now – after so much life had gone by.

and i heard my voice change. suddenly, there it was. the new york accent, back. it doesn’t take much – i am impressionable with others’ voices. the kiddos used to know when i had just talked to my nashville producer – i’d be drawling afterwards. so, long island came roaring back and we interrupted each other with abandon, punctuating our conversation with much laughter.

and there was this. this candor i remember, a not-beating-around-the-bush-ness – a bluntness – an assertiveness – that is visceral for me. i could feel it bubbling up, cracking through my learned midwest reservedness, my keeping-the-peace-ness.

“this used to be me,” i thought.

i – admittedly – have a whole bunch of leftover newyorkness in me. but much of it has been tempered by life in places outside of the northeast. it is pretty much necessary for survival – and for friendships outside of a place left behind, where conversation is more open, more sharing, more – well – raw.

it didn’t take much time to crack through to that place, shifting to this-doesn’t-need-to-be-polite, to this-doesn’t-need-to-be-filtered. i jumped back into a conversation where we – without words – assumed the other was a mature adult, sharing intimate details and what-could-feel-like risky stories with each other, instead of accommodating the other’s comfort level.

it was incredibly refreshing.

when i got off the phone i realized that i missed this. the cracked veneer – the truth of life – minus the filtering, minus the concern about judgment, minus storytelling sans the sordid details, the guts, the ugly as well as the pretty.

i missed the real-real. i missed the interrupting. i missed the accent. i missed the new yorker in me.

i shared snippets of our call with d, laughing at my slowly-shifting-back voice. i felt different.

“i’m no mary poppins,” my girlfriend said on the phone.

aware that i was thinking about how the midwest might feel about admitting one was not at-every-moment ‘too good to be true’, i proudly answered, “nope. neither am i.”

those cracks. the kintsugi. damaged and filled with tears and laughter, hopes and dreams and disappointments. truths and failings and forgiveness and grace.

and always at least one little spot that is not perfect, that is left open – where spirit can enter.

or the new york you left behind.

*****

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an invitation. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

each time we returned to our airbnb west of aspen we turned it on. the salt lamp seemed a beacon, warm light welcoming us. i don’t know if it was actually emitting any goodness – as they are said to – but it sure felt like it.

we have a salt lamp in each of our studios. they glow in those spaces and, whether or not they are scientifically proven to be goodness-in-a-lamp, they are soothing to us.

my studio is clean now. i removed a desk and all the extra stuff that was cluttering up the space, all the relics of jobs or times that felt negative. i have yet to go through the closet where there are a couple file cabinets of music, but the space – as i walk in – is a completely different place than it had been and every day i light my salt lamp.

it feels like an invitation.

for the first time in many years now.

and it makes me wonder what that might mean.

*****

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it should be banned. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

i hadn’t ever before cooked with bok choy.

but the miso potsticker soup called for it, so game on. we purchased baby bok choy and set about making a big stock pot.

it is a beautiful leafy vegetable, photogenic. and much simpler to use in a recipe than i thought. the new recipe opened up ideas – as we cooked together – for other ingredients we might add, to other recipes we might try. that is the beauty of trying new things. new begets new.

the fewest short months ago, we co-opted the phrase “we’re not going back” made popular by kamala and tim. we both felt passionately about not going back, but instead moving forward, our land and its people becoming a more perfect union, learning more, experiencing more. we were excited about the possibilities that lay in front of us – all of us – excited to think about the potential of a country that had so much potential. like our bok choy joy, we were eager to try new things.

instead, the pall that is settling over this country is everything BUT that. suddenly, we are being thrust backwards, hurled around into the ugliest times that are arriving with each sign of the sharpie. it is beyond incomprehensible to grok why anyone would want this.

as we trimmed the bok choy stem and divided the bundle i thought about all the canned vegetables i had eaten back-in-the-day before frozen vegetables in the days before buying fresh. i don’t think i had ever had fresh asparagus before the early eighties. i had no idea what i had been missing, no idea whatsoever.

cooking with canned asparagus – as I would expect it would be with canned bok choy – is narrow and colorless and bleak. quoting from reddit – “asparagus from a can should be banned as a crime against humanity.” (bellasantiago1975)

co-opting THAT expression now, i’d adapt it to a far greater-reaching, far more ominously perilous outcome than we might imagine: “going back should be banned as a crime against humanity.”

because it IS a crime against humanity.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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a feather in the sky. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

though there was a feather in the sky

and i collect feathers

i had to leave it there – in the blue

to let it float

and land in someone else’s sunglasses

though there was a feather in the sky

and it granted me a wish

i do not know if it will be granted

before the wind carries it off

a wispy cirrus genie

though there was a feather in the sky

it is elusive and evanescent

i saw it – which made it real

but its fleeting quills were bending as i watched

and i saw all of its life pass by

as the feather lost its shape

and could no longer be a feather

for its soul was becoming the next thing

the wind morphing it, streams of vapor swirling

into perhaps a mountain or a unicorn

or something flat like a fallowed meadow

before it explodes into flowers

and then, no one will know that it was a feather

except i will

and now you

and so it counts

though there was a feather in the sky

and i collect feathers

i had to leave it there – in the blue

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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by a thread. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

the connective tissue between us is sometimes like strong rope and sometimes like filmy silken thread. yet we are – one to the other – connected through bliss and storm, hot heat and bitter cold, mountaintop summits and chasmic challenges. though you may be peripheral in my every day story, we connect in the subplot of all our stories – the humanity of living – our interdependence, our shared earth.

we – together – in our shared mission seeking goodness – step into the next day. in our joining – together – we bring the best of each of us – the uniqueness of all our strengths, our gifts, our wisdom – and we buoy one another.

when the ice formed on the window in threads – more beautiful than i could have ever created – the feathery crystals latching onto the ice-strand – like tiny preschoolers holding the knots on a rope while walking in a safe-line – it reminded me, once again, of your presence. the threaded crystals remind me that we are not alone, that – together – we may find the beauty we know is there, the pause between the notes, the reinforcement, the ‘ands’ that we each desperately need.

the needlepoint of the universe – crocheted vapor – a talisman of hope.

“if everything around seems dark, look again, you may be the light.” (rumi)

we are the light in this darkness – together – particularly when we make together our intention. though feeling as if hanging on by a thread, i take comfort knowing you are hanging with me, with us.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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relentlessly. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

they are on 24/7. we haven’t taken them off our old wrought iron railing because – well – we need the light.

today i read a tiny post about someone who had taken her christmas tree down and had lugged it outside, getting it ready to go to the drop-off where it will be picked up and recycled into mulch. she wrote that she was sad and that she told her husband – when he arrived home – that she already missed the lighted tree. the end of her bitty post revealed that the tree was back in the house – lighted. it warmed my heart.

we have taken down the holiday decorations. it was just a couple days ago and i already miss the glimmer. it’s all so joyous and – once put away into bins – feels plain. to be honest, i did keep one lighted lodgepole pine tree in the sitting room and i am contemplating bringing another back up. it won’t take much to convince him that they are necessary for a while, even though i was prepared with “they don’t reeeeally look like christmas trees….”

whatever it takes, i’m thinking. if we need more happy lights, then we should – by all means – put them up. anything to stay in the light, particularly right now. these darker winter months require much vitamin d and anything else that brings us beams of hopeful … and this one – this winter – well, there are particularly dark circumstances that will make us look for anything to try to even out the seesaw. if a couple fake lodgepole pines and a wrought iron railing with lights help, then so be it.

we spent saturday moseying about antique shoppes, one of our favorite things to do. i was looking for glimmer….things that might reflect light or hope or remind us to be “relentlessly present” (john pavlovitz).

each of the seconds that ticks by – even in this particular right now – cannot be held, cannot be relived. to lose them – those seconds – is to let the indecency win. to seek a balance – where we zero in on the stuff that is flashing by us and still attend to whatever we can do to further goodness in a not-good time – seems prudent. otherwise, every last bit of glimmer will be gone and the dark will usurp us. to be relentlessly present is to be mindful of breathing, i’m learning.

we found a cool candleholder – wrought iron and reflective silver – bargain-priced. it is now on the radiator where the happy-light-covered aspen log is, reflecting the light from those tiny bulbs.

we also found a wooden ampersand. we didn’t buy it – though also bargain-priced, there is the budget and all – but i think we may be going back for it (or find some other iteration of it).

something about having an “and” sign in the living room may remind us – relentlessly – about each other, about the fragile balance we need to hold, about this moment and the next and the next and-&-and.

*****

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the beautiful and the blurred. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

it is hard for me to pass by something this beautiful – this wispy milkweed pod – without stopping. i am fortunate to hike with someone who understands this. we stop and i study the milkweed; i take several shots.

it is not the first time i have taken photographs of milkweed in the winter. i’m pretty sure it won’t be the last. each time i see milkweed – even in the winter – even in its fallow – i feel like it is different – its slant in the meadow, the curve of the pod, the way sunlight plays on it.

this is how i will get through it all, i think. zeroing in on intense beauty, tiny nuances, millisecond moments. i realize that this is the power that is available to me. this is the distraction.

the invitations are numerous from the side of the trail, from the side of life. they beckon to each of us and it is up to us whether to accept those invitations.

i am kind of a detail person…so the invitations are somewhat evident to me, hard to miss. they blur out everything else, if you intend to really take notice.

and, in just that way, we are intending new practices – more intentional meditation, more exercise, more outside. and each time – despite any same-ness, there is the possibility of new. each time we may stop and study or gaze and admire.

“things will not be the same, because we will not be the same.” (anon)

it may be difficult to avoid focusing on the way things will be in these fraught times. nevertheless, we will try to focus elsewhere. to lean into the beautiful and leave the rest of it blurred.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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