reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: aging


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distinctly nebulous. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

i’m not sure i ever noticed the shadow. for decades i’ve looked at sky and clouds and contrails and rows and floes of angel hair (oops – off-track, there)….but i don’t know that i ever noticed the shadow.

there are days that some new learning just utterly astounds you – even something really basic, something that has been there all along, something as simple as some word you’ve incorrectly spelled all-your-life. the possibilities are endless. we are fortunate that way.

we were out the other day and someone asked us if we were “retired“. we laughed, mostly because that isn’t an easy question for us. “retired” implies that one has completed the working portion of their life and has moved into a phase wherein one collects some sort of pension or retirement and one does, well, whatever one wants.

we answered that our son calls us “nebulously retired“. the guy who asked us laughed. and we added that we are artists and artists don’t really retire. we don’t report to a certain place each day at a certain time for a certain wage but we don’t stop working either. artistry is an ongoing thing, whether or not it earns you a pension.

artistry also calls you to keep learning, to keep asking questions, to be intrigued, to hone your skills, to work at it – no matter your age or stage.

and so, the contrail shadow made me curious and i looked it up – this seeming optical illusion of line on the bank of clouds that were, apparently, below it. it is a little mind-twisting. but oh-so-interesting and photo-worthy.

though photography has not been any official part of my artistry it is something i have always loved. ever since my sweet momma and poppo gave me a 35mm camera for my early-high-school-graduation, i have carried cameras around with me. with the advent of phone cameras that are better than most older digital cameras, i am even more zealous now. the contrail invited me to take its picture. and it’s too easy.

and, yes, it’s too easy to just keep going, keep creating, keep learning – even nebulously. we both keep it fluid – this relationship with our artistry. the line is vague, the distinction is indistinct, blurry.

we are sometimes the contrail and sometimes the shadow and sometimes the clouds upon which the shadow is cast. and we like it that way. distinctly nebulous.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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the inherent heart. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

i was glad to see it wasn’t just a tiny puddle. the next time we passed the rocks along the shoreline i looked for the heart again. and there it was. sans rain. which means it is an inherent part of that boulder and that it will be there each and every time we pass by. there is something reassuring about that.

we are living very much in the middle of the decisions you make when you love something unconditionally and you are loved back unconditionally: our dogga.

in these days our everyday decisions are based upon his needs. we have found that dividing up his meals into small meals every few hours has aided his belly, has made him less apt to feel yucky. and so, every few hours we need be here in order to give him breakfast, lunch, dinner or one of the snicky-snacks in-between.

now, being at home at those times cuts down on our ability to come and go, but this is for a beloved dog who dedicated his whole life to us. it is not too much of a commitment to – best as we can – make sure he is feeling well in these later-aging days. and so, we stick around home.

our walks these days are not on our river trail or out in the woods or in the meadows and trails of the state or county parks, nor are they in distant mountains or canyonlands or forests. instead, we stay in the ‘hood and walk our own streets and the sidewalks along the lake and the harbor. our standard walk is 3.5 miles, but we often add to that, walking further. there is a lot to see and no end to the kind of mileage we can add to our exercise regimen, all nearby. driving a half hour each way – or more – adds more time to our time away from dogga, so we choose right local most of the time and are grateful we have such amazing views steps away from our house.

now, every time we pass the heart i will think about our very-conscious decision to stay close to home…close to tripper.

every time i pass the heart i will nod and know that we have chosen love – and time together – for our old dogga.

every time i pass the heart i will remember that dogga – who is soaking up all the belly-bellies he can get – is right there with us, appreciating our staying close – just as he has all these years.

every time i pass the heart now, i know that it will be there the next time too. constant. unassuming. unconditional. inherent.

*****

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

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in the eye of the beholder. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

i didn’t save this pink rose.

but there is a very shriveled dried daisy-that-looks-nothing-like-a-daisy on littlebabyscion’s dashboard. there are a few daisies from our wedding in a vase in my studio. and the first rose he ever gave me is on top of a cabinet in the bedroom.

despite – or is it with? – its distinct bow to aging, this pink rose just became even more beautiful.

this week – while at the grocery store – we splurged and bought a new lotion. it is an anti-aging lotion, a lotion that will eliminate crepey skin, a lotion with a potion that will make us supple and glowing all over again.

ok, well, not really.

but we do need lotion to combat the dryness in the house while we run the ever-humming window air conditioner in the feels-like 104 degree weather. dogga rolls his eyes every time we turn it off for a spell – he is a dedicated a/c dogga. his aussie self loves winter but not-so-much summer; the “cold box” (as dogga calls it) is his pal.

so, particularly in these times – spending our time at home with our aging dogga – we “have the air on”.

on the outside of the lotion tube, under the words “age renew” and “crepe corrector” it unequivocally states, “82% had visible improvement in crepey skin in just 2 days.” and then there is an asterisk.

ahhh….the ever-present asterisk.

the 82% had visibleimprovementincrepeyskin on the back of their hands and arms.

hello???

what about the rest of our bodies?

the reviews list words like “transformative“, “fantastic product“, “you need this“, “worth the cost”.

one person wrote that her “creepy forearms look so much better.” eww. just the words “creepy forearms” make me shudder. i mean, check your spelling!

another person wrote that they were a “side sleeper” which, to my knowledge, has like zero to do with the efficacy of this lotion.

and then there was the person who is using this lotion but stated, “maybe it will prevent that crepe look from happening in the first place.” and the person who is “approaching [their] 40s and noticed aging on [their] neck.” goodness! poor dear.

clearly, there should be age restrictions placed on the purchase of this lotion.

we hold no lofty expectations for this. we simply want a product that will keep our skin more hydrated as we attempt to do the same with drinking-more-water.

we know there is – really – no turning back. lotions and potions and moisturizers and all-the-stuff wasn’t consistently budgeted in our lives so we will be more like the pink rose, bowing to what aging looks like.

but, in defense of the pink rose – and us – beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

*****

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

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in full bloom. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

“after all those years as a woman hearing ‘not thin enough, not pretty enough, not smart enough, not this enough, not that enough,’ almost overnight i woke up one morning and thought, ‘i’m enough.'” (anna quindlen)

i’m pretty certain that the hibiscus does not stop to ponder if it is ‘enough’. it just buds and blooms and shows up in the world in a big, big way.

i’m also pretty certain that – were the hibiscus to offer advice to women everywhere – it would advise us all to – likewise – just bud and bloom and show up in the world in a big, big way. it would encourage us to not ponder anything – particularly whether or not we were ‘enough’, likely whether-or-not anything at all.

i had a dream last night – the part that i remember is that i had something to say…and in my dream i contacted a younger woman to ask her to say it – because somehow, in my dream, i had passed the point of being heard – my age had made my words irrelevant, no longer of value, my voice weightless.

even in my dream i knew this was wrong and when i woke I wondered why i was dreaming this – though there are so many dots connecting this i am foolish to even wonder.

i watched a video where the interviewer asked the interviewee about when this country was great. the man – exquisitely dressed in gq magazine garb – replied with a year in the early 1900s, before world war one, in 1913. the year of the women’s suffrage parade – among many other things – the interviewer pressed, “oh, so before women could vote?” to which the fabulously-dressed-interviewee replied, “right!”

what the ever-lovin’ hell is that?

watching the dismantling of women’s rights in this country is exhausting. listening to pompous suit-wearing gluttonous testosterone-focused men tout the value of men and the devaluing of women is utterly disgusting. witnessing men strip women of the right to make decisions about their own health and well-being sickens me. sexually exploiting girls and women, stonewalling all manner of culpability, and perpetuating undeniably dishonest and disrespectful silence is grotesque. and the whole twisted trad-wife kitchen-lizard-birth-control-less-pregnant-my-husband-can-vote-for-me-i’m-good-with-that-and-goodness-let’s-make-sure-we-address-his-erectile-dysfunction-and-bow-to-his-needing-a-sandwich movement makes purple stuff wanna burst out of my head.

i mean – truly – what in the hell is going on?

if this is where this country is full-steam-ahead heading, we are most definitely regressing, backsliding into a retrograde sans stopgaps. this is primitive thinking of the highest nature.

and even the hibiscus knows it.

i woke up a little bit crabby after dreaming that i turned over what i had to say to a younger, thinner, less wrinkly, more ‘relevant’ woman.

and, like anna quindlen, i thought to myself, “the hell with that. i’m enough.”

i have a few things to say here and i’m in full bloom.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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

even in decline, the day lily is stunning. even as it prepares to fall – its veined petals listing toward the ground, stamen curled and ready to release.

even in decline, it is beautiful, the bloom looking more like the wings of a butterfly than the petals of a vibrant lily, heralding summer.

even in decline, it participates in the garden, granting space to those blossoms that are just starting, buds that are just bursting, tiny green treasure chests on the stem just begging for attention.

even in decline.

my sweet momma – and i have told this story – used to tell me that she was astonished when she looked in the mirror. she would grab her red lipstick, carefully lining her lips, applying it, and would look at me – in horror – saying, “i look like an old woman!”

it was impossible to convince her – even as i insisted – that she was absolutely beautiful – which she was – those creases and lines in her face worn in by life, the sparkle in her blue eyes that never faded, the worry lines earned by worrying about those she loved. even in decline – her beauty in the mirror and in the world – was palpable, was real, was undeniable.

but i am beginning to get it. such an emphasis placed on youth – and how that manifests in our minds and hearts – the way aging reveals in our bodies vs the way youth looks on our bodies – it’s an insanity to think that static is the only way to see beauty. so now, when i look in the mirror, i – like millions of other women – are maybe measuring what we see, maybe counting the wrinkles, maybe frowning at the dynamic changes through which our individual lives are expressing in our bodies, maybe bemoaning what we are taught to think of as flaws.

instead, i just want to remember.

i want to remember how entirely gorgeous the daylily in our little garden – in all of its stages. how much i welcome every last dewy bud, blossom, gossamer-wing-petaled bloom, the dropping petals. how much joy it brings, this simple cycle of life, evidenced along the fence, not-so-flawed.

it would seem that i should grant myself the same grace i grant the daylily.

it would seem that as each day unfurls into the next i am – indeed – learning that it is ever more beautiful than the last.

*****

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

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our sturdy old tree. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

at approximately 3:48 last wednesday afternoon, in the first mighty gust of the storm, the great soul – the great tree – in our front yard – for decades and decades and decades – fell. and nothing was the same.

this sturdy old tree was wise beyond its years, withstanding all manner of weather-fury, all seasons of plenty and not-enough.

this sturdy old tree – magnificent, its canopy shading our lawn, its spirit encircling our home and family – stood vigil out in front, a talisman of protection and a peaceful adapter to the change of winter to spring, of autumn to winter, each time, bending to the rules – or whims – of nature…for at least seventy-five years.

this sturdy old tree – was what i looked at from the nursery while rocking babies, looking out the window. it marked the passage of time as my babies grew, early morning light in its leaves, the sun setting through its crown, its winter-nakedness to its verdant maple-leaf splendor, its yellow glow in fall, the way snow lay on its strong branches, its promise in early spring.

this sturdy old tree – was what i looked at from my bench in my studio, sitting at my piano composing, lyricizing, practicing. it gave me breath and reminded me to place rests in the music, to give others breath, time to process, to take in, to feel. i stared at this tree out the window from that spot, standing still or sitting quietly, pondering what had been, what was, what might be. it was a touchstone of consistency, of continuity, of the timeline that goes back and forward, dynamic.

this sturdy old tree greeted us as we came down our road, as we turned the corner. it offered shelter and filtered sunlight, framed the moon and the stars and planets, played with color at dusk. it elicited our appreciation for yet another homecoming. it was the monument, the lighthouse, the trailmarker that said “home”.

this sturdy old tree – wizened – was that which i advocated for, in times of electric-wire-branch-trimming, in times of water main work, in times of road construction, in times of other injuries it withstood.

i whispered words of – truly loving – gratitude to it, “you did nothing wrong. you did everything right,” as they began to tend to the-cleaning-up after the wind had wreaked havoc upon it. with more extreme storms coming – and a heavily one-sided bit of our beloved tree left – i knew that it was its time. and it was hard to watch, this family member which had preceded me, which had lived here the whole time i have, which had seen much life in that bit of yard at this house on this street. we were fortunate that it was our tree and we loved it for being our tree.

it feels like a marker in time to have felt and heard this great tree fall. to see its brokenness. its soul continues on with us; we need that wisdom and resilience, especially now. we need its tenacity as it aged, especially now. we need its stalwart goodness, its dedication to being the best tree it could be, especially now.

our big, sturdy old tree lives on. it will always be one of the great trees because of its great soul.

and – after its decades and decades and decades of time as a tree on this good earth – in the bowing of its beautiful canopy of leaves, its hefty rough-barked branches, its branches that curved outward with a bowl in the center of the trunk where creatures could rest and shelf fungus could excel, it reminds us of something:

there is no great anything without a great soul.

“and when great souls die/after a period peace blooms,/slowly and always/irregularly. spaces fill/with a kind of/soothing electric vibration./our senses, restored, never/to be the same, whisper to us./they existed. they existed. /we can be. be and be/better. for they existed.” (maya angelou)

*****

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

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

we took off our sunhats. it was a hot day and we had been gardening for hours. the purchased plants had been potted, all the transplanting in the yard was done. it was that golden hour after all the work and before making dinner. we poured a bit of cool pinot grigio, took a tour around the yard and then settled into our adirondack chairs in the shady corner of our deck to gaze out at the yard – one of our favorite pastimes now.

the daisy path – as d has aptly named it – is slower. it doesn’t require the striding or racing around of earlier years. it is a – rather, The – sweet phase and we are trying our best to hone it. we never expect to perfect it, so we are doing everything we can to appreciate it, be grateful for it, honor it.

every night last week we sat on our patio or on our deck, just sitting. at the end of the day – after having dinner al fresco – we – truly – just sat.

and we talked. about anything, everything, nothing.

earlier in the day – on one of the days – i got ready to plant one last sweet potato vine. d had spray-painted a plastic pot and it was ready for the transplant and to be hung on the old ladder in the corner of the deck.

d asked me if he could get me a chair – as i have found that placing a chair on the patio next to the raised deck makes planting easier on my back. i thanked him and said that i was only planting this one pot.

but then i was struck by how generous this offer was. for in the middle of everything he was doing, he was concerned that it might be easier for me if i had a chair – as i had used while potting other days – and he was going to drop everything to go get me one if i wanted or needed it.

and so, it was then – one of those rare moments you remember – not because you don’t appreciate each other all the time, but because sometimes a very intentional wave of gratitude is easy for your brain to snapshot into your memory.

i walked over to where he was weeding the cracks in the patio and bent down. wrapping my arms around him, i told him how much his kindness meant to me. it wasn’t even a few seconds and dogga was there, right in the middle of our embrace, pushing his head up into the armwrap hug, his face even with ours, in the middle of so much love.

i whispered to d, “memorize it.”

of course.

we three stayed that way for at least a full minute, which is a long time for a busy aussie. it was a magical minute. definitely daisy-path stuff.

our old dogga stuck close for a bit more, to get kisses and pets and butt-butts. he didn’t see the tears welling up in our eyes as we committed it all to visual and visceral memory.

d went back to weeding and i potted the sweet potato vine and hung it on the ladder.

it seemed right that this sweet potato would keep vigil over our little corner on our deck. my sweet momma’s words, “live life, my sweet potato,” ring in my ears.

sweet potatoes and the daisy path. sunhats and glasses of wine, a checkered tablecloth and adirondack chairs. our dogga and a sanctuary of peace. love and gratitude.

the sweet phase, indeed.

*****

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

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

we’ve gotten a few plants now. a couple sweet potato vines, a couple licorice plants. we also have our basil, chives, parsley, cilantro, jalapeños, cherry tomatoes and lavender. in the last few days we transplanted them into clay pots for our potting stand or their new home on our deck or patio.

our first day at the nursery was completely about reconnaissance. the second – at a different nursery – was to be wowed and make a few purchases…four to be exact. we were directly behind someone who had ridiculously-loaded carts of plants and flowers, along with a ridiculously-loaded price tag. we were just as excited as she was, only our joy was about our four plants, not a multitude. there is a reality to budgeting and we try to plan our purchases wisely, particularly in these times.

our third day out was crowded with people, the nursery was messy and the plants were picked over, but we still managed to find some herbs and tomatoes, lavender, salvia and sweet purple flowers whose name escapes me. our fourth day we filled in the gaps. the nursery had resupplied and we picked up the mint, jalapeños, and little white with purple flowers to contrast with the purples we had already gotten.

d lined up all the pots and planters on the patio and i took out my gloves from the old cabinet we had placed on the deck. and then it started.

from individual elements – these small (though not inexpensive) plastic pots of baby plants – turning into our own backyard sanctuary, filled with potential of beautiful flowers and edible produce. exquisite. each morning we look out the window – in the earliest morning light – to see these new residents of our home. each morning they are enchanting.

one day – over a century ago – all the pieces of barney were put together into an upright piano. where he went from there is unknown, but we found him in the church’s basement boiler room, not exactly a prime location for this musicmaking instrument.

after we managed to have him delivered to our backyard instead of to the junkman, we were thrilled with his presence. his aging might have been preserved by some marine wax, but we chose to go organic with barney. he’s way more of a granola piano than a botox piano.

through the years we have now had him, he has become more and more gorgeous, more and more a part of our backyard, offering shelter to the wee critters, a landing pad for those who fly or scamper. barney’s higher-purpose presence is grounding and part of the peace we feel when we step out our back door.

it’s hard to believe that it is almost june again. already. summer is at the edges.

the last two nights we have had dinner outside on the deck. as the sun just begins to slightly wane – to fall off into acute angles with the horizon – we sit and chat while the garden lights reflect in the pond. we wait for hummingbirds to zoom to our feeder. we watch breck quake in the breeze, marvel at the play of birds and squirrels, adore our dogga laying on the deck in the shade. it is all enchanting.

as the dark begins to settle into the alcoves of our yard – the ferns breathe deeply, the peonies stretch – we yawn and make our way inside. as we settle in under our quilt we talk about our day. we talk about the delights of new plants, marvel at the perennials we are astounded to see again. we are grateful for plastic adirondack chairs, a tiny bistro set, two old gravity chairs and a couple round rugs – the trappings of our deck – a place we truly find enchanting.

as it turns out, we don’t require much to be enchanted.

*****

GRATEFUL © 2004 kerri sherwood

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setting seed. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

tiny parachutes – white filament – catch the breeze and lift the seeds – about 200 of them or so – from their home – the head of the dandelion – scattering them about in the world. the dandelion plant is left behind to generate a new flower head, more seeds, more parachutes. it is not singularly connected to any of these. its job is to simply be prolific, to produce more flowers and, thus, more seeds which will germinate more plants. and the beat goes on.

i would not be a good dandelion. i could not be so disconnected, so cool-y aloof. it is not in my nature to let go so easily, to ride on the wings of apathy. my children could tell you differently. my thready connection with them hangs on, even with all their efforts at asserting their independence. my thready connection – sans parachute – will never cease. motherhood – as i experience it – is like that.

fistful of dandelions is now kind of an old song – recorded in 1999 – which is 27 years ago. i hesitated a moment before i sent it to a newer friend – someone who i doubted had ever heard any of my music. i wasn’t sure if it was the best song to send her way, since it is only the second vocal recorded professionally in the second phase of my artistry – the phase that started in 1995. i know – in my library – there are better-sung songs, better-sounding songs, better-written lyrics, better-performed tracks.

i sent it to her anyway.

because i have found that this song speaks to moms and she is a mom. because it was more raw – desperately honest – an earlier piece sort of buried on an instrumental album, whereas other vocals are more readily accessible, easier to peruse if you wish. because – maybe, hopefully, we’ll see if possibly – someday i may record others and, just as time keeps moving on, so does style and relatability and such.

and so i sent it to her.

i haven’t heard anything back, which is always a tad bit disconcerting for an artist – any artist. we all know that it is how a piece of music, of art, of writing hits another that gives it life, gives it lift, sets its parachutes in motion so that it might float and swing on a breeze, setting seed in yet another place, with other people, new gardens to receive it.

i bent way down on the trail to capture this particular dandelion. its job was not yet done – there were more seeds, more parachutes; there is more possibility.

the same is true of my children.

and i will hang back at the flower zone, in the garden, while they fly around the world seeking rich soil in which to experiment and grow, in which to continue to grow their own wings, those stunning kaleidoscope wings of color and texture and challenge and success and brilliant brilliance – those iridescent shimmers – a myriad of sheen – though invisible to the naked eye.

and i will be astounded.

“…it overwhelms me what i feel, this heart outside of mine/is walking in another person, in another life…”

*****

happy mother’s day.

*****

FISTFUL OF DANDELIONS ©1999 kerri sherwood

download music from my little corner of iTUNES

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

we have a relationship with mason jars. ball, kerr, various other brands, it doesn’t matter. we even have a relationship with faux mason jars – the smuckers jelly jars that we used to use for wine, the bonne maman jam jars we currently use as water glasses.

at our wedding we had dozens of mason jars, daisies tucked into all of them. some were ours and we borrowed some (does that work as something borrowed, something blue…?) because way back when – when i first moved to wisconsin – i got hooked on these jars.

my dear friend linda and i would attend the late 80s/early 90s craft fairs, peruse antique shoppes. her home was a celebration of all-things-vintage and i fell in love with it. there were textures and stories – a distinct warmth – everywhere and buying-vintage became a viable – and smart – option for me. we have several metal flour sifters as a result of that and a collection of old wooden textile mill spools and bobbins (from the 19th and earlier 20th centuries). when other people were buying cutesy painted tchotchkes, i was lusting over old wooden boxes, lidded crates and blue mason jars.

we stopped at a couple antique shoppes recently, looking for a small wooden garden table for a plant or two on our deck. we had purchased one last spring but then d loved it so much outside he brought it inside in the fall to serve as his bedside table. now he is a devotee to this little peeling-paint garden table and we are on the hunt for another.

i don’t suppose many people would have brought this table inside – or the old glider – or the chunks of concrete – or the birdhouse – or the chiminea. but in an effort-that-is-no-effort to have a home that doesn’t look like it’s staged-and-ready-for-sale or is a furniture-outlet showroom or magazine piece, we dive into our intuitive to use the things that really speak to us, that are organic, that have stories. i maintain that everyone should be required to purchase mostly used things – there is just too much stuff in the world and i can’t imagine why we need even more manufactured stuff. but i digress.

in that same vein, though, we have started regularly using the things that we have found in our going-through the basement, the attic, the closets. we are eliminating plastic here and there and choosing the cut-glass vessels for our carrot sticks and salty snacks. we are soon going to reconfigure the stuff in the cabinets under the counter in the kitchen – to make access easier to the old pyrex, the fenton hobnail, the cut-glass.

we have found we have no real need to purchase many things. i’m not sure if that comes with age or if that comes with a bit of wisdom – or if those are one and the same. our inclination is to use what we have, to not save things for “good” (which is particularly difficult for me), to minimize as much as we can.

every now and then we find something that just pokes at us, prodding us to bring it home. there is a raw rough-hewn clay pot from northport, a couple linen napkins from the same boutique. there is a new peace sign button hanging in littlebabyscion. but way more has gone out than come in – donated, sold on marketplace or poshmark. less is most definitely more. especially in these times.

the blue ball jars all lined up at this shoppe made me smile. the proprietor clearly loves organization; everything there was in categories, lined up or gathered for ease of perusing through. we had no impulse to buy anything, but loved our walk through.

because each time we walk an antique shoppe, we have stories to tell – about the stuff of growing-up, about things we have previously owned, about stuff we never had or never wanted, about – well – life.

if you have never taken a walk through any vintage shop, you might consider it.

it’s generative in a way you might not expect, with sudden glimpses into the decades that have past, with moments when your heart surges – focused on a memory, with a wistfulness that reminds you of how fleeting it all is and how very much we need to “wring out every ounce of life, breath by breath, [all] that this world has to offer.” (words from a text from dear friend lisa.)

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CHASING BUBBLES mixed media 33.25″ x 48″

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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