reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: aging


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zig choices. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

“because of some strange little voice inside, i zigged where i was expected to zag…”(anna quindlen)

aging is a funny thing. you come screeching to a halt at this place – a kind of dr. seuss waiting place – and you have the chance to make some decisions. which way do you go now? what route do you take? where are you headed?

or maybe you come screeching to a halt – having been on this one solid path – to a place – a kind of dr. seuss waiting place – and you linger there, looking around, out of breath and a little bit tired. in front of you, choices fan out, beckoning you. you sit down, in the lazy boy of havinggottenthere and you ponder, panting, exhausted.

for, all of a sudden, you don’t feel compelled to drive forward on one straight line. you are suddenly empowered by the realization that none of it – and all of it – counts. you have begun to realize that the dust you will leave behind will not be measured by accomplishment. it, likely, won’t even be remembered by accomplishment. for those things dim and boxes of those remain in the basement, ready for some thrift store or antique shoppe. mementos have gathered dust and certificates have faded on office walls. the hills you climbed, the battles you waged, they have evanesced. the trophies, the medals, the awards, the stock options – all so greatly valued at one time – have lost their lustre.

so you take stock. your havinggottenthere lazy boy slowly rocks while you stare ahead and think about what path might “align with your purpose, peace and trust in the future” (the “best path” as defined by google).

and something is itching inside you to go rogue, to take a path no one expects, to zig where they expect you to zag.

and, as it appears on the twiggy hogweed map, you can always backtrack back to the waiting place – to re-evaluate, to rest, to try something else on for size.

there is a freedom to this aging thing. (granted, there would be more of a freedom if there was not chaos.)

this freedom to explore without expectation, to try without any measure of succeeding, to grab onto more experiences – but without preconceived notions, to discard the safe path and embrace a bit of fear, to muse-work and branch-out or sit-and-stare with abandon.

there is a freedom knowing that as much as one matters, our tiny existence is yet tiny. and what we feel at dawn as we breathe in early spring-like air or listen to birds collecting at the feeder or pull up the covers for just a little longer – all that matters.

there are moments i am stunned by the ability to feel. physically. emotionally. the ability to FEEL. it’s shocking. i recognize that there have been days – maybe even weeks or months or years – when i paid little to no heed to being able to feel. lost in the mayhem of everylittlethingthatmustgetdone i missed it. we have all been racing to finish.

and yet, here we are – in this time of utter chaos – where everything seems upside down, corruption is rampant, the country is flailing while its leaders violently push it backwards, isolate it, make it a pariah – and THIS happens to be our time.

we feel bits of wisdom pop up evvvvvery now and again, evvvvvvery here and there, through fallowed earth like snowdrops or crocuses desperate to emerge. we stand up. we speak up. we speak out. we cuss. we bellylaugh. we rail. we inhale, another deep breath.

we are feeling. we are making time to feel.

we are considering our zigs.

*****

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

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the stars and us. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

there are moments when it takes some extra energy to get out from underneath a warm sherpa throw blanket. it was dark. we had eaten dinner. the olympics were on. dogga was sleeping on the rug. we were snugged under the blanket, warm and cozy, tired after a long week. i could tell that neither of us was necessarily motivated to get up and go out.

but we did.

and, for that – the tinygiant bit of effort it took to move the blanket, put on boots, grab our coats and hats and gloves and keys – i am grateful.

one of the local parks was having an event friday night – a candlelit self-guided trail hike – to celebrate valentine’s day. it is one of our favorite local trails through the woods and so we had reserved tickets ahead of time. only….in the way that actuallygoing gets in the way of lazingaround….we had to buck up and go.

like i said, grateful.

we’d reserved the latest time slot, thinking there might be less people on the trail that way. we needed quiet, to be surrounded by familiar trees – even in silhouette – the inky sky above, stars twinkling.

we hiked it twice. the first time there were just a few other groups. the second time we were absolutely alone.

it was exquisite.

with just simple luminaria bags here and there showing the trail, we hiked along in the dark on a path we know oh-so-well in daylight. we’ve hiked it also as the sun sets, lingering and finishing just before dark. but this time…

we spoke a bit as we walked, but mostly listened to the sound of our boots crunching on what remained of the snow. it was the perfect end to our day and our week, and the perfect backdrop to the conversation we were having about d’s 65th birthday the next day.

he asked me how i felt when i turned 65 and i shared the myriad of feelings i had as that had approached.

mostly, i told him, i felt like it was freeing. i felt like i no longer had giant expectations or convoluted ideas of what success was. i had a different measure of achievement. i felt like it was easier to understand presence, being right where one is. i felt like some things – things that don’t really matter – just slipped away, like a silk scarf.

and, the thing i really realized was that i was just like the stars above us on that trail that very night: just a bit of dust that got to be, that had the good fortune of life, of time present on this earth.

the candlelit trail was the sweetest way to spend friday night. nothing extravagant, just the woods and snow, the stars and us.

sooo worth getting out from under the blanket.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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together here. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

it was his birthday this weekend. he turned 65, a big-deal-birthday. my sweet momma always paid special attention to those big-deal-birthdays – especially the ones that were divisible by 5.

we had plans for friday – particularly because his actual birthday falls on busy valentine’s day – it just figures he is a valentine’s day baby! we were going to go to the milwaukee art museum and then to the public market, to sit at the counter and lunch on divine gumbo.

dogga woke us up early, not feeling well.

and that changed everything.

for this man – this man full of heart – whose very heart aligns with mine – with whom i have mutually – side by side – endured all matters of life for years now – decided he’d rather stick close to home, to be by our dogga so we can keep an eye on him and love on him.

in years hence, it will never matter to either of us whether we went to the art museum on friday, nor will it matter if we had gumbo that exact day. what will matter is that we let our love of our beloved dogga lead us and we prioritized with him in mind.

and this is just one of the reasons i know that “i don’t care about any words on the map besides you are here.”

some stuff just doesn’t matter. and where we spend time together is one of them, for anywhere on the map together – is home together.

i grant you – yes – that we would love to tool about the country – heck, the world – and explore and hike and photograph and write and paint and play music and create joy as we go. we’d love to immerse in places near and far – and feel the actual place, its actual culture, its energy, its gifts – for all places have innumerable gifts to offer.

but at this moment in time, we are happy – content – to be home in our old house, to be sharing our home with each other, to be sharing our home with our old dogga.

there will be other moments. there will be other places to see. there will be maps-with-words and plans and adventures.

right now here – with each other – is the most important place ever.

*****

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

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sit on the step. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

i have sat on that front step next to that black wrought iron railing countless times. i wouldn’t even be able to venture a guess as to how many times. i’ve watched kids play, I’ve waited for someone’s arrival or return, i’ve breathed fresh air into grief, i’ve pondered some difficult things of life.

as it has rusted through the years, d sanded the railing this past summer. and then he repainted it, so it’s looking pretty fresh these days…well, as fresh as a railing that’s likely almost 100 can look.

ahhh…speaking of age…a few days ago – on sunday – we had a tiny celebration. we grilled and had some french fries and a glass of wine. we used a set of our favorite cloth napkins. because this month d will turn 65. and because saturday at midnight-going-into-sunday was the very last day of the affordable care act for us. we are now both on medicare with a medicare supplemental plan and a part d.

we have had a dubious relationship with the aca. of course, grateful to have healthcare of some sort, there has been the healthcare cliff, the healthcare subsidies, the healthcare deductibles, the healthcare copays, the state-to-state healthcare rules about where you might be able to be treated, the limitations on travel if you have any concerns about, well, anything happening other than what an emergency room might handle.

recall the day in our own town we sat in big red in a parking lot, trying to decide between going to the emergency room or urgent care for my two broken wrists. i am wrapped up like a mummy, both wrists wrapped and then placed against my chest (the way the ski hill medics wrapped me) and i am trying to look at the difference in coverage between the ER and urgent care so that i might be treated but we might not be overwhelmed by medical debt afterwards. these were extraordinarily tense moments and – as it turns out – we probably should have gone to the ER, but the state of healthcare in these united states make proper care of our bodies – decisions based on the reality of your situation – nearly impossible for most ordinary people.

so now, medicare.

we are inordinately happy to be a-week-shy-of-65 and 66…ok, seven-weeks-shy-of-67. we appreciate the chance to move about the country and be covered by insurance to keep us healthy.

yes, indeedy…..move about the country and be covered by insurance to keep us healthy.

like, you know, universal healthcare.

and why would we not want everyone in this country to have that?

it is beyond me to ponder why anyone WOULDN’T want that. how little compassion you must have to have to believe instead in the every-person-for-themselves philosophy of life.

it’s time – again – to go sit on the step.

some things just make no sense at all.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

HELPING HANDS (53.5″ x 15.25“)

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

“know then that the body is merely a garment. go seek the wearer, not the cloak.” (rumi)

and the babycat chair – cloaked in snow – shielded all from the view of its real soul. its new trapping hides its decrepit wickered weave. one would not know not to sit – certainly not to sit back – with snow covering this seat, this chairback. the babycat chair’s garment of white belies what is truly there.

and yet, this chair – the other day – seated a squirrel or two. as i watched out the window, they took turns sitting, munching on something i could not identify, comfortable squatting on this handy seat.

i – like you – have known plenty of people who have cloaked themselves in all the trends, who have kept up in fashion, who dress for the time and continually refresh their wardrobe. indeed, they look fabulous and, like just wearing the right couture, their vehicles and homes and sundries are all cloaked in that same shiny wrap. with some, it might be hard to gauge what is truly inside, what soul is silent, what soul is loud. we may not know but we are entranced by the packaging, the masking, the shell – that which is superficial, evanescent, transient.

the spirit of the babycat chair carries on, with or without snow. its aging – like the aging of barney-the-old-piano in our backyard – lifts up the unchanging truth that aging is not negotiable.

we – inside our cloaks – whatever they might be – transcend the broken wicker of what we put on to cover who we are. like the babycat chair – but exponentially – the spirit of what we mean, what we have meant, remains.

what do we each choose that to be, individually, in community, in this world?

*****

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the L box. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

mama dear repurposed gramps’ old wooden cigar boxes. she’d label them with a magic marker with a big Z or a big B on the front – which stood for zippers and buttons.

i have these old cigar boxes. The Z box now stores nespresso pods in our sunroom. the B box stores harmonicas, kazoos, egg shakers in my studio. the unlabeled corona cigar box is in the office and is loaded with business cards from days when my recording label was flourishing.

the zippers from the Z box are in with my sewing supplies.

and the buttons from the B box? there is a giant collection of buttons. tiny buttons, metal buttons, plastic buttons, wooden buttons, buttons with distinction, whimsical buttons, spare buttons in those tiny plastic bags along with a bit of matching colored thread – that used to come with every blazer, every shirt, every coat.

it is a direct connect to pass by these button-flowers – these fading daisies in the meadow – and think of mama dear, my grandmother, my sweet momma’s mom. she is the person who taught me how to sew and i simply cannot so much as thread a needle without thinking of her.

i found a letter from mama dear the other day. it was from early 1980. i was 20. in it she thanked me for a christmas gift i had given her and a card i had sent from a trip to visit my parents. no one knew at the time it would be her last holiday season. born in 1899, she was a feisty almost-81 with bright red hair and a penchant for gambling slot machines in vegas. in her letter she wrote, “i hope you are happy with your choice” referring to my staying in new york instead of going to florida with my parents as they retired.

at the time it wasn’t really a difficult choice. i was at the beginning stages of a composing/recording/performing career and retirement-central wasn’t the place to grow. so, yes, i was happy with my choice. until one day when that choice became dangerous and i fled all semblance of my budding career, leaving any feisty i had inherited from mama dear behind, devastatingly leaving all artistry buds behind for decades to come.

the button-flowers are charming. they punctuate the masses of goldenrod lighting up the meadows. and they make me think of my button collection.

i have no idea what i will do with all of those buttons. i suppose one day i will list them on marketplace and give them away to a seamstress or crafter who will make creative use of them. maybe i will tell them a little about mama dear, about how many of these buttons are vintage, about how they carry a spirit of feisty red-headed grandma in them.

or maybe i’ll just quietly gift them the collection and hold onto the feisty myself.

and every time i pass a button-daisy on the side of a trail i’ll check in – inside – and make sure it’s still there – the feisty – still growing, still challenging me, still repurposing into profound and important choices for the L box. Life.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

66 and 19. (david robinson)

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

mid 80s, late 80s, the 90s – it was a thing. posies of dried flowers everywhere you could find a spot. on indoor trellises, tucked into cornices, hooked onto doors, gathered in bowls, in wreaths and vases and garlands, in frames and potpourri vessels. so many dried flowers.

and it wasn’t that they weren’t beautiful. next to the quilts on quilt racks and the doilies on the side tables, old silverware windchimes, painted wooden tchotchkes and cross-stitch anything, the dried flowers complimented the style of the times – this nod to nostalgic country-ish.

there was a day – years ago – when, having been surrounded by dried flowers for decades, i literally walked around my home with a big garbage bag and tossed all the dried flowers i had managed to hang, tuck, hook, trellis, gather, weave, drape, frame or potpourri-mix. it – this decorating obsession with things-dried – was suddenly done.

(now, to be fair, currently, there’s a posy of lavender from our garden in a small glass milk pitcher and a couple reeds from a hike. oh, and a few hydrangea from out front. of course, there are two big branches in our house now, not to mention driftwood from long island and an aspen log from the forest in breckenridge, but, in essence…for the most part…in theory and almost-all-application, the dried-flower-dust-accumulator period is over.)

instead, as we hike along the river and in the woods and walk in the ‘hood, we watch the flowers of the meadows and the gardens changing. their waning beauty draws me in – even more than their mid-summer blossom. there is something about the fading flower, something about the button left after the petals fall, something about the curve of the wilting coneflower or a tired black-eyed susan, the almost-fluffless dandelion, the loves-me-loves-me-not petal-less daisy. i stop and linger with them, always curious how graceful it is they go into fallow, this period of rest, how they so readily give over to this change in appearance when humans seem to resist so vehemently any visible aging.

the 1980s/1990s dried-flower-hanger/tucker/gatherer in me rises as i admire these beautiful nods to autumn’s arrival. but i leave the flowers in the meadow, in the garden, in the marsh next to the river, in the woods.

and, instead, i carry their beauty – and the moments i was witness to it – with me, knowing that diminished beauty is – nonetheless – beautiful.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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we do both. [kerri’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab.]

in true escapism fantasies we are either touring around in a tiny rv or we are hiking the pacific crest trail. both speak to us.

there is an obvious difference – the physical nature of the PCT is a tad bit more taxing than pulling a little rv around behind us.

in my dream, we do both.

and we never look at the news.

ever.

we just ride – or hike – off into the sunset, toting the minimum of stuff we need. we write, we paint, we compose, we take photographs. we drink coffee made over tiny ultralight stoves by streams and sip wine in canyonland blm sites. we hold witness to day in and day out.

we remember what is good, what is gloriously beautiful, what is real.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

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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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the way of the dandelion. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

aaaaaah.

no one really prepares you.

every single bit of the dandelion that is you is unprepared for the flight of the fluffy feathery pappus of the puffball off and beyond.

though the flight of these filaments is your ultimate goal – to give lift to these children who have merely been loaned to you for a time – their jet-stream-like flight takes you by surprise, leaves you a little breathless and a little astounded as you watch them fly, dispersed by the wind. your hearts – the extra ones that were birthed in you at the time of their arrival – clench a little in the moment of their departure, wonder at the very, very big change in how you are then defined in the world.

and you realize, perhaps, that you suddenly understand how your own sweet momma (and dad) felt. the moment they retired and moved. the moment you moved away, likely to not return to live in their locale again. the moment you no longer stop by at any old time. the moment it required more planning, more travel, more arrangements to see each other.

and you try to adjust – your little dandelion heart works hard to put it all into perspective, to recognize the natural order of things, to grok that this is the way of the universe – birth, growth, independence. it is the way of the dandelion. as beautiful as it was, the yellow flower was not the pinnacle; the puffball is essential for these amazing children to go, to become, to make their mark on the world, to change things for all time.

but that same little dandelion heart sometimes just aches a little – for the days they were satisfied with lap-sitting and book-reading together, or the days you endlessly shopped together, or the days you sat on the sidelines of their game or their match or their race or their concert or their recital, or the days you simply were together – sharing space and time – sharing time in the same space.

i knew my own momma was my biggest fan – despite any disagreement we might have had along the way. she was the cheerleader of my life in the same way that i carry pompoms for my own children, in all their sharing of steep summits and challenges and bliss and angst. they will always be the first thing i think of in the morning and the last thing at night as i tuck them in with whispered prayers i poof to them like blown kisses or – maybe – like dandelion pappus in the breeze.

time will keep moving and i can feel it now.

“it’s friday again,” i look at d.

“and it’s june,” he replies.

wow.

and my grown children keep growing – in their own physical, concentric worlds. and i keep going – in mine. and when those two worlds meet – when they bump up against each other and sit still for a spell – my dandelion heart is ecstatic.

*****

FISTFUL OF DANDELIONS © 1999 kerri sherwood

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