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stunning evening. stunning evening. stunning evening. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

a couple weeks ago, on friday night’s date-night, we had no plan – as is often the case. we so enjoy the sanctuary of our backyard that it, more than not, wins over going out anywhere. it was quiet and the sun was waning, a little cool. we added a layer and talked about watching a movie outside or taking a walk.

we hadn’t yet been – this season – to the marina in a town down the road where they sponsor live music at a biergarten on the harbor. and so we decided to jaunt down there for just a bit, walk on the boardwalk along the lake, listen to the band.

it was a stunning evening – between 7:30 and 8:30 the star of the show. the sun was setting on the western swale horizon of sand prairie grasses and fen. little to no wind, perfect temperatures, boats lining the docks, guitar strains in the air, a paramotorist sailing across the sky.

this past friday night, on friday night’s date-night, we left for milwaukee in humidity that made my hair into unkempt-fuzzy-curly-big-1980s. our third time to see our son perform at milwaukee pride, we were excited as ever. it was also a stunning evening – between 7:30 and 8:30 the star of the show – for us.

leading with the joy of doing what you really love, they took the stage and transformed the house. what had been a meager audience, with a complete lack of dance juju – with a lead-in karaoke non-dance-non-EDM-music performer inappropriately booked into a dance pavilion slot by someone who clearly did not understand how to shape the evening – well, they turned it around. in short order, there were hundreds and then thousands of people under the pavilion, dancing, raising their arms in the air, celebrating. i’m sure the next performers were grateful; our boys were one heck of a lead-in for that next slot.

we took photographs over by the water, the sky turning inkier as time went on. they went on to play a big nightclub gig and we drove home with lightning in the sky to our west, glad that the storm hadn’t arrived any earlier.

it’s saturday as i write this. tonight, i imagine, we’ll make some homemade pizza and a salad, maybe pour a glass of wine, turn on some music, and sit at the bistro table on our deck. our old dogga – who is worrying us a lot these days – will lay nearby and we three will watch the sky change as day moves to night.

another stunning evening.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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braided days. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

“in contrast to our frenetic, saturated lives, the earth offers a calming stillness. movement and growth in nature takes time. … there is something in our clay nature that needs to continually experience this ancient, outer ease of the world. it helps us remember who we are and why we are here.” (john o’donohue)

this must be what’s missing. as we get besieged with new news – all pretty horrible, the stuff of gluttony, haughty entitlement and bigotry truly beyond belief – i have wondered what it is in these people that is missing, what it is in these people that doesn’t grok the evanescence of life, what it is in these people that drives them to push for – or cheer for – a world without natural beauty, a world that seems twisted, that convolutes nature – botoxing faces and bodies, annihilating parks and resources, canyons and forests, waterways, wildlife, wildflowers that will never bloom.

if you never stand in nature – still – never even for a moment in the tiny – or vast – space just outside wherever it is you hang your hat, you miss the air that swirls around you, the recognition of another-day, the exquisite velvet softness of a peony petal in the growth stage of a bloom when it has just begun to open.

how can you carry that – the grace, the scent, the unbelievable creation of peony pink – and be anything but awed? how can you watch the play of light on tight buds opening before your very eyes and consider your self-serving dystopian game more important? how can you ignore the explosions of color, the frequencies of sound, the vibrations under your feet and all around your body even when you are still? how can your gaze glance over beauty and not have any pondering about who you are and how you – a humble minute being of clay and stardust – fit in with all the rest? how can you breathe air – feeling the world in your lungs – and be unconcerned about the air and the world future generations will breathe? what is missing in these people?

“when you take the time to travel with reverence, a richer life unfolds before you. moments of beauty begin to braid your days.” (john o’donohue)

reverence.

it’s reverence that is missing.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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

“hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.” (langston hughes)

we wandered arm in arm around the fairgrounds, one antique booth to the next. it was good to be outside on this day, a little cooler than the surprisingly hot day before. we weren’t looking for anything, really. just idea-gathering, noting how people were re-purposing items, laughing over things folks were selling as antiques that we still use every day.

a big armoire got our attention and we walked over to it. the young vendor gave us a few minutes with it before he approached.

within minutes of our first question about the armoire, he had begun telling us of the life-struggle he was in, seemingly desperate to share it, to voice it, to maybe bring a different kind of energy to it.

we listened. i was aware we were both getting uncomfortable a couple minutes in, but both of us could also see he needed to tell his story. and so we listened.

when he was done – except for staccato-ing out another detail here or there – we talked about how life will go on, how light will return, how everything will be ok. he became less intense then and smiled, saying he was already better off since the initial traumatic moments.

this young man has sat on our hearts since then. and so has the lesson we were reminded of – to listen.

in those moments we have all had – when we are broken-winged birds – we have sometimes had someone, somewhere, who has given us hope. someone who has lifted us. someone who gives us perspective. someone who nudges us to remember our own value. someone who reminds us of joy. and of dreams.

someone who tenderly repaired our wings so that we could fly.

we are both so grateful for those someones.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this WEDNESDAY

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comfort in power in comfort. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

it was even before the windstorm. before the tree fell in a yard behind us. before the tree – landing on the wires – snapped the utility pole. before the utility pole put intense tension on our electrical wires. before that tension severely bent our electric mast. before our quadrant in the neighborhood lost all power for two days. before the house was aching-joint-cold inside. before the angst of the last-minute – very pricey – ultimatum of having to have a new mast installed – on a weekend – before we could get power restored to our home. before.

because there was plenty before all that that required comfort.

and it was most definitely a pasta day.

had we had power, each of those next days were also pasta days.

it was dang cold in the house. everything slowed to a standstill. no power, no heat, no internet, not a lot to do but watch out the window and wait for any sign that the power company was coming.

our friends and neighbors – we all kept in touch. they rallied around us with offers of help, our turn for the concern of those who care about us.

when the power company did arrive and we saw them out back, it began to raise our spirits. we knew they had a lot to do – the downed tree, wires all enmeshed in bushes and tree branches, a snapped pole in a difficult-to-get-to place, placing a new pole, restringing wires. a ‘hood without power. our comfort lay in their hands.

and these guys – in windy conditions and cold temperatures – and eventually – snow – were out there, diligently getting it done.

at the last minute we were told they couldn’t safely connect us without a new electric mast. 4pm on a saturday.

in high gear, we feverishly placed calls and texts to electricians and our friends and electricians of our friends. we knew it might not be easy to get someone – with a mast in their back pocket – to swing by and install it – at that very moment.

the young electrician who’d done work for us before came through. and it was no small comfort we felt knowing that he and his colleague were out there installing our shiny new electric mast. in texts our friends cheered them on.

the power guys were finishing up when our guys were juuuust about done. knowing the weather that was due to arrive the next day – a blizzard and, subsequently, negative windchills – they worked together to make sure we got connected – the only house with a damaged mast in this particular wind-tree-wires-pole-wires-mast fiasco. comfort.

i walked back into the house – with all the layers on that i had worn for the entire day – and the lights were on. i could hear the boiler as it worked to start warming up the radiators, which had a long way to go from in-house temperatures in the 40s.

d and i stood in the living room, staring at each other, tired from the worry and the cold.

we both spoke generous words of appreciation for the workers who had restored power – that basic of which we all take for granted. we both spoke generous words of appreciation for the electricians who dropped everything and accommodated our need. we both spoke generous words of appreciation for those people who had reached out to virtually keep us company. we both spoke generous words of appreciation for keeping relatively calm in what had become increasingly angst-ridden.

we reveled in light. and heat. and comfort.

the comfort of power.

the power of comfort.

simple stuff.

*****

comfort you – van morrison

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

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

dogga stands on the frozen pond out back. it is covered with snow and this is the first time – the first winter – he has not still avoided it. he’s not a water-dog so – as an aussie that circumvents it when it is an actual pond, it is surprising that he is choosing to traverse it, dig in its snow, stand on it.

winter is his favorite. it is his beach-weather. it’s his bliss.

now, i’ve heard many people lately complaining about this winter. “sick of” cold, snow, grey skies, biting winds, they crankily bemoan winter – like it’s a monster dedicated to making them miserable.

i don’t feel that way.

it’s winter, i think to myself, and winter is supposed to be like, well, winter.

the last few wisconsin winters have been easy on us, moderate temperatures, little snow, no real winterish hardships or challenges. maybe that’s made some of us less tolerant of what winter really is. but this winter feels about right, as far as i’m concerned. i think you are supposed to want to linger inside, nest, cocoon a bit. i think you are supposed to rest and maybe clean out a bit, readying yourself for spring and new growth. i think you’re supposed to take stock of it all and appreciate the change in seasons as the spinning earth revolves around the sun. i mean, maybe that’s just me.

i find great beauty in the almost-monochromatic that is winter. i find a storehouse of rejuvenation in its fallow. i find anticipation in the slowly-lengthening days, the slight uptick of temperatures. i find a little bit of hope – even in the midst of the darkness that is this country right now.

when spring comes – after the temperatures level out a little bit – we will cut these grasses down so that new growth will have room to burst through the soil. in the meanwhile the tracks around the grasses show that there are tiny creatures taking shelter in them, warmed by the fronds into which they are nestled. the snow is gorgeous – so bright out back i cannot comfortably look out the window.

it’s february. i don’t know how long winter will last. i suppose it could stretch well into april, maybe a bit into may. whatever. i am just here – me, d, dogga, our new gutters and warming cables – riding the coaster. studying the milder weather where family and friends live, i wouldn’t mind a few days in the 60s, but i kind of need the seasons to be what they are.

we watched the birds in the birdbath yesterday. there were at least seven birds splashing and drinking out there. i guess the sun was strong enough to melt the snow that had accumulated. they seem elated. they’d fly away and then return, waiting their turn on the edge of the bath together. they know where the birdfeeder is and they frequent it. their chirping and birdsong in the morning reassures me that – yes – it’s just winter and this is what winter is like.

i don’t want to race through. i don’t want to wish for months from now. I don’t want time to go by without my acknowledgement of some sort, my appreciation.

i just want to do winter – because it IS winter.

i’ll get to spring when it’s spring.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this not-so-flawed wednesday

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blink-of-an-eye. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

in a really rare moment, we had the amazing chance to have our children and their partners gather around the dining room table with us. to say i was thrilled would be an absolute understatement. it had been six years since we had actually been together – my two children and us. it was a giant gift and i am grateful for it.

plates, pasta, wine, bread – all were merely props as i gazed around me, watching these beloved faces, listening to laughter and conversation. i tried hard to memorize all of it. these brilliant, creative seeds of tomorrow, bright lights of real humans, of good people.

the next day we hiked, just d and me, after everyone had left. we talked about our blink-of-an-eye time with our adult children, about the fun chaos in the kitchen the night before, about the teasing and the ribbing. and i found myself holding onto the filmy threads of each moment before they flew away.

the photographs will help, of course. they will be posted in our kitchen and i will pass by them, often looking at them and smiling. but inside, i will hold onto the way it all felt, the heart-stopping hunger i had felt longing for a moment together, the breath i could exhale as i sat at the same table with my children and their partners or as we all clustered together in photographs.

but i know i won’t be able to hold onto all of it. time tugs at memory like that.

and the clustered fluffs of seeds will be tugged out of the pod by gentle breezes and fierce winds. they will swirl about and land somewhere, planting. another milkweed.

and i hope there will be another table-sitting somewhere soon – all together – as these brilliant humans go about their all-grown-up lives, swirling about with gentle breezes and fierce winds at their backs.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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who’s got time? [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

“life hack: stop trying to be cool. be nerdy and obsessive about the things you love. enthusiasm will get you farther than indifference.” (posted on barkersounds IG)

this could possibly be my new mantra. nerdy and obsessive and (possibly overly) enthusiastic.

indifference slays me. the whole aloof, apathetic, flippant thing. all that gets under my skin, which is particularly sensitive to all the stuff on the opposite end of the spectrum from nerdy, obsessive about the things you love, and enthusiastic.

so that might explain the excessive photographs of barney, the old piano in our backyard, losing keys and structure in each season, its patina dusty wood. it might explain the innumerable pictures of breck – in every season – its leaves – budding in early spring through its golden age in autumn. it might explain why i take a zillion photos and generally completely annoy my adult children with my wish to capture them on film (well, “film” so to speak).

my sweet momma was a person who was also pretty nerdy and obsessive about the things she loved and, most definitely, enthusiastic. her “wowee!!!” goes down in history as a word she owned, and each of us knows we are referring to our beaky when we use that word.

life is short. that becomes more and more apparent as the years go flying by. the age spots on breck’s leaves are like the age spots i find on my own person. everything is fluid and keeps changing and the youth of our budding – like our aspen’s – is fleeting.

i can see no reason to not be nerdy. i can see no reason not to be obsessive about the things i love. and – yes – i can see no reason not to be ridiculously enthusiastic.

i mean, who’s got time for anything else?

*****

GRATEFUL © 2004 kerri sherwood

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read DAVID’s thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

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that which to hold close. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

“life is strange. you arrive with nothing, spend your whole life chasing everything, and still leave with nothing. make sure your soul gains more than your hands.” (no attribution)

it’s happening.

we can feel it.

i stood in his shop’s driveway talking to our beloved mechanic. “a simple life,” we agreed. we just want to live a simple life. not a life lived for or gauged on the stuff we have.

because that stuff – the stuff of life – inundates us. everywhere we look people are chasing it – a materialism that just never culminates in any moment where it is “enough”.

and in these unbelievably fraught times, stuff seems even less important than it ever did.

one of my best friends from high school sent me a bunch of texts early this past week. we were out on a trail, trying to soak up sun and hold at bay the yucky cold symptoms we were experiencing. suddenly, there were multiple notifications. he had become a first-time grandpa.

i stopped short on the trail and looked at the photographs of the baby girl just born into this world. i was overwhelmed by the sheer miracle of that and the miracle that this man and i had been friends for over fifty years (despite seeing each other only once in all that time since high school) and – back then – it would have been hard to imagine the moment i was experiencing: standing on a trail in a completely different state five decades later while he shared the moment of his entry into grandparenthood. truly a remarkable gift.

there were other moments this week, moments when i felt more connected to the world: talking with the woman with the jeep in the parking lot at the market when we went to pick up more advil, the frog that suddenly showed up in our pond, the jalapeños we grew that were ready for picking, a note from a dear friend to “stay strong”. we virtual-tracked our daughter running an incredible half-marathon in the mountains and we listened to our son’s music online. friends checked in to ask if we needed anything. the other side of the spectrum from feeling appalled by the world.

soon it will be time to resume the cleaning out. i told our mechanic about the sentimental person’s guide to decluttering book i had purchased (hoping for osmosis to make it stick) and another title i had seen: “nobody wants your sh*t“, which we both found infinitely funny. and true. because it is. true, that is.

i remember when my sweet momma – in acts of generosity and kindness – began to give away possessions. she knew. she knew how little all that stuff really mattered. and, in these quieter moments of getting a bit older, i – we – can see that, even more than before. especially in these times.

it would seem that dropping the shopping bags and the trappings of the ladder are thresholds into the gains of one’s soul, into the real stuff of life – because, as my poppo used to say about the other stuff, “you can’t take it with you.“

and it would seem that – instead of the receipts of chasing and chasing – the buddhist prayer is that which to hold close:

“may you be happy. may you be at peace. may you be free of danger. may you be loved.”

*****

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

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merely steps away. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

the breeze was decidedly heavenly, refreshing, a breath of fresh air.

it had been a while.

this summer – clearly in the midst of changing climate – has been a doozy. hot and humid and downright uncomfortable. it used to be that we’d ponder whether or not to place the window air conditioner units in the windows. we’d fuss and debate and look at the extended weather forecast, trying to decide if we could suffer through a few days or a week of sticky, knowing that wisconsin would reward us with a breezy sweep-through back into exceptional summer weather.

not this year.

it literally felt like it – the sticky – arrived. and never left. every morning i’d open the back door, step out on the deck and say aloud, “it smells like florida.” the fact that it also felt like florida made me want to get my money back from the wisconsin-summer for which i’d signed up.

in these days i am much less tolerant of the heat. me and dogga. and even d. all three of us, dogga’s tongue hanging out and all of us panting – it’s not a pretty picture. and so, we (the plural we, though it is most definitely the singular d) installed the window air conditioners. and, with WE-energies’-exponentially-rising-costs and caution to the wind, we ran them.

and then.

then the breeze shifted.

finally.

and, with great flip-flop glee, we started back walking our long ‘hood walks.

because merely steps away is this great big beautiful (oh, wait! i simply cannot use those words in that order anymore)…..merely steps away is this vast, stunning lake.

we feel lucky every time we walk along its edge. we feel lucky as the breeze wraps us in cool. we feel lucky at the harbor, at the beach, on the rocks, at the historic beachhouse where everyone gathered after our wedding. merely steps away is this reminder to breathe.

and so we stand there, staring at this lake like an old friend we’ve known for decades. and, just like people – filled with stories and layers and grief and bliss and tenderness and churning and color and monochrome – it’s always familiar and always an enigma – both.

the sun dipped below the west horizon, amping up the ombré of the east.

and arm in arm we walked home.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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