Tag Archives: artist
trust where you’re going
mmm…the gift of insomnia
it was the middle of the night and i woke up. like wide-awake waking up. but not the i-want-to-get-up-and-vacuum or anything kind of awake. just the lie-here-and-ponder kind. of course, after a while, that pondering gets, well, a little old, and i was wishing i could go back to sleep. counting sheep. counting the minutes (and the hours) as i watch the clock. counting hot flashes. counting my own breaths. counting the mosquitoes i can hear. counting – sheesh- anything trying to get back to sleep. somewhere in there, the night turned to early morning. and then i hear them. the loons. in the distance out on the lake somewhere up here in the north country there are loons gathered and i can hear their mournful cries, that gorgeous sound, the timbre of which is indescribable and yet, so recognizable. i listen. i am both reassured that all is well in the night and in the world right at this moment. i close my eyes and float with the loons. mmm…the gift of insomnia.
it was the middle of the night and i woke up. i had been sound asleep. we were all tired from a big family celebration. i rolled over and tried to get back to sleep, but the images from the day were hankering to be looked at again. so i laid in bed and thought about the whole day. the moments of hugs, the moments of hard work together making a party, the moments of laughter and great banter, the moments when looks of great love and history were exchanged between people who had been related forever and people who are newly related. i partied through the party once again, this time in my mind’s eye, this time meandering a little more slowly through the precious moments. mmm…the gift of insomnia.
it was the middle of the night and i woke up. i had been sound asleep, the sound-asleep kind of sleep that comes from drinking in the mountains all day and weeping at every turn. i was so overwhelmed with the beauty of the day and the drive through passes, thousands of feet above sea level (with, by the way, no guardrails.) sheer majesty. i laid awake and reviewed the drive. each bend of the road. each steep ascent, each use-the-brake descent. i could feel the air on my face, i could hear the rustle of aspens, and i could smell the crisper-than-the-crispness-of-a-fresh-apple-off-the-tree air. i close my eyes and can see those mountains. mmm…the gift of insomnia.
it was the middle of the night and i woke up.
i was surprised because i had spent a good part of the day hiking and outside in the superbly fresh mountain air. my sprained-not-too-long-ago ankle was aching and i had those good aches that come with having really great exercise. i tried to go back to sleep, but i already missed the mountains, even though i was still there. they are glorious. they are alive. they make me alive. i closed my eyes and reached out my arms to hug them. mmm…the gift of insomnia.
the middle of the night can challenge me. like you, i can find myself reviewing and worrying and worrying and did-i-mention-worrying? 
but tonight i will wake up – again – in the middle of the night. and i wonder what gift i will find there.
nurselog (nurs lawg, log) noun: each of us
we were silently canoeing in a quiet lake. very few other people were out. it was almost still. the sun was warm on our faces. and there is a certain rustling sound that birch trees make in a gentle breeze. as we drifted around a bend, there was an old, old tree, its broken, jagged end angled a foot above the water. from a distance, and then closer, we could see what looked like a tiny garden growing in the tree’s jagged end.
“it’s a nurselog,” he said. as the fallen tree disintegrated, the organic matter became the perfect soil for new growth. small plants were stretching out of their new home, this welcoming space they had found.
(later i looked it up. on asknature.org i read, “tall, wide trees in the forests of the pacific northwest serve as nurse logs to their seedlings after they fall, providing decades of water and nutrients as they slowly decay.”)
nurse log. nurselog. (i like it as one word.) i thought about it as we paddled. my sweet momma was a nurselog. everyone she encountered she gave space to, nurtured, made at home. she was the perfect soil for others’ new growth, whoever they were.
isn’t that our job?
one of my favorite children’s books is called ‘the carrot seed’ by ruth krauss. the copy i have of it is one of those hard cardboard books that get all goobery on the edges after hundreds of readings. in the book a little boy wants to plant carrots but is cautioned by his mother, his father and his big brother that the carrots won’t grow. regardless, he diligently continues to water and tend the little spot where he planted the carrot seed. and then one day, a carrot came up. my favorite line from the book is “just as the little boy had known it would.” there is an illustration by crockett Johnson that depicts the little boy with a wheelbarrow that has in it the biggest carrot you’ve ever seen.
the power of nurturing.
anne lamott (in ‘grace, eventually’) wrote, “all of us lurch and fall, sit in the dirt, are helped to our feet, keep moving, feel like idiots, lose our balance, gain it, help others get back on their feet, and keep going.”
what’s more important?
what are we REALLY here for?
how can we help each other grow?
what does it all mean?
“…provide decades of water and nutrients…”
we kept canoeing, our paddles gliding in and out of the calm water, the lake answering our unspoken questions.
nurture me
is one of my earliest tracks.
recorded on ‘released from the heart’
THE CARROT SEED inspired this piece.
welcome, barney!
barney is in our backyard. he is holding clay pots with our herb garden and some beautiful white impatiens. there are a few
candles in glass jars. and he is perfect.
i’m not sure i ever thought that someday i would have a piano in my backyard. barney is a very old upright. about a hundred years old, he is tired and worn from long years, decades even, spent in a basement boiler room, but i can see the life in him as the sun hits him. never ever would i have imagined the idea of wild geranium growing up around a piano tucked into a bed of day lilies, just a few feet away from our little pond. never would i have imagined the idea of water getting on a piano, without dashing to wipe it off. it rained yesterday and i had to fight the urge to run outside and wrap my arms around him. barney’s new life is to feel loved and not ignored, appreciated and smiled at and not relegated to a dark, piano-inappropriate place. he was slated for the scrap dealer.
each morning since his arrival i have gone outside and thanked him for all his good work in the world. i am grateful to have a spot for him to rest. he looks proud. and he truly looks happy.
i really am an acoustic girl. my big yamaha grand has a studio of its own. my growing-up-spinet has a spot in our basement (not an easy place to move it to in this old house.) barney has a place in the backyard.
and all have big places in my heart.
www.kerrisherwood.com
itunes: kerri sherwood
“live life, my sweet potato”
“butts are in!” she said, as i walked out of the fitting room and pirouetted in front of the three-way mirror, studying my reflection and the new jeans i had tried on. “good thing,” i said, off on a rant, bemoaning menopause catching up to me. sitting on one of those man-benches outside the fitting room, david laughed and rolled his eyes. buying jeans is one of the worst undertakings for a girl, i told him. it just isn’t easy. nothing about it is easy. no matter what age you are. there is so much to think about, so much to worry about. david said it seems much more complicated than “boysbuyingjeans.” ha! the understatement of the century, eh?
momma looked at me many times, straight in the eye, and worriedly said, “i looked in the mirror today and i was shocked to see
an old woman! i look like an old woman!” goodness gracious, momma, you were 93! momma had every single right to look like an old woman. matter of fact, she was the most beautiful old woman i have ever seen. all those amazing wrinkles she earned through life, those eyes that have seen so much, the laugh lines around her mouth, the easy smile, that look that could stop all motion, the little scars- the one she got from playing field hockey, the one she got from a golf outing. beautiful. beautiful. beautiful.
recently scordskiii wrote to me that he is “always slightly baffled by the extreme nip/tuck stuff going on with 50-something women.” the pressure of looking “good”, the worry of not looking “old”. he continued, “there is something to be said for growing old gracefully…hell, it’s a gift when growing old is an option…bring on the wrinkles!”
every time we walk past linda’s house she stops us and cuts flowers for us, sending us home with armfuls of stunning blooms. we protest, saying that she is cutting too many, that she should save them for herself or not cut them. she always shoos away our protest, hugs us and sends us on our way. they are there to cut, she says. to be enjoyed. she is not worried about what she has cut or what she has left in her flower garden. she is embracing the beauty of the flowers she can share. we are grateful. for the flowers and the hugs. she doesn’t worry about the wrinkles it leaves in her garden.
the other night we sat on the edge of the deck. it was twilight. the air was still. little sun was left in the sky. we could hear the birds readying for the night. in the distance we could hear the foghorn. we held hands. and sat. quietly. then we let dogdog out. he ran rampant around the backyard, his joyful smile leading the way through the hostas. at first i cringed, thinking about all the hours this backyard has taken and how quickly his aussie body can make it look – well – pretty wrinkled. but what would life be like without his exuberance? what would it be like perfectly perfect? the trade-off would be huge…like botox for life, not just cosmetic. shaving off the highs and lows, the spectrum would narrow, maybe even to a point of comfortable predictability. but who wants that anyway?
last december, at some random moment, momma called. after saying hello she said she called to tell me something. i waited, held my breath and listened. “live life, my sweet potato,” she said. “live life.” i exhaled.
with these wrinkles, this butt, this backyard, all the messiness, the highs, the lows, worries or not, i will, my sweet momma, try my best – to live life.
on sunday he said, “do not worry about life. instead, drink it in.”
yes.
the gorgeous disorderliness that is life
there is something profoundly striking about a beach that has been newly combed. so fresh. so ordered. so manicured. absolutely stunning in its no-foot-has-stepped-here-ness. it is simple in its pristine beauty and can make you just sit and stare.
i have always loved the beach. crab meadow was my growing-up favorite. i could ride my bike there and, later, drive my little blue vw there. it was there that joe-z yelled at me for going too slow on waterside road. it was there, off-shore, that crunch and i fished in the middle of the night. i took long walks with my dog missi there. i spent many hours listening to AM radio under a hot sun on a big beach blanket with susan. i played frisbee with robin and, years later, making a pilgrimage back to the island, skipped stones with chris. about twenty years ago, many high school friends gathered at the new restaurant on the beach. about ten years ago or so, i returned to that restaurant for dinner, drinking in the familiar smell and sounds of that beach at low tide. many times i climbed the fence before sunrise to take sunrise pictures. many times i walked for hours on that beach – winter, spring, fall and yes, the obvious, summer. i thought on that beach. i watched seagulls on that beach. i wrote on that beach. i pondered and wallowed and figured out a lot of life on that beach. but i don’t remember crab meadow beach ever looking so neat and tidy. it was full of rocks and pebbles, seaweed and horseshoe crab shells, typical of a north shore long island beach. yet it spoke to me for years and years. and, were i to go there right now, i suspect would still speak to me.
and now, i sit on the side of lake michigan and stare at this beautiful crisply renewed shoreline. it’s totally different than crab meadow. and, it’s a different time. and this beach? it appeals to me too. years ago, when i moved here, i was surprised at how many seagulls were here. these gorgeous stripes of sky and water and sand speak to me. even manicured. hmmm…especially manicured.
i don’t think anyone would describe me as manicured. ever. ok, well, maybe during my employ at the state attorney’s office in florida. i had this amazing boss named debbie whose style was flowing and just really lovely. and so, it was probably during that period of my life that i came the closest to ann taylor suits and accessorized scarves, with etienne aigner pumps that exposed the ever-important toe cleavage. but since then? there have been a real variety of clothing styles, most all falling under the headings of blue jeans, black shirts and boots or flipflops. back in high school my incredible english teacher andrea wore bandanas in her hair and peace sign pendants. she inspired us to embrace being sensitive and aware and to write poetry. she inspired us to be alive.
i think i am more andrea than debbie. i think i am more crab meadow than lake michigan. most of the time i paint my own toenails. and sometimes i don’t blow dry my hair. as an artist, my life is not pristine or ordered; as a human, my life is not neat and tidy.
but every now and then, i love to sit and stare at a pristine, ordered, neat and tidy beach that is waiting for the gorgeous disorderliness to come.
blindsided
the other day we took a walk on the lake. we stopped at a low brick wall and sat down to watch the water and sky dance with each other. out on the horizon was a sailboat, its white sail billowing in the breeze. it made me think of a day i had spent on lake michigan sailing with friends. it was a really long time ago and i couldn’t remember the details. i don’t know if that can be blamed on a bad memory (remembering too many other details through the years), motherhood (remembering too many other people’s details through the years) or menopause (no explanation needed). but this is what it made me feel:
suddenly i realized that, with the loss now of both my sweet momma (the storer of many of my details) and my daddy (who valiantly tried to store as many of my details but could never compete with mom’s capacity to store such things), there was no one to ask.
i was instantly blindsided by the profound thought that if i can’t remember something, it’s now gone.
whoa.
doesn’t that just stop you in your tracks? it did me. big chunks of my life are now nebulous floating material if i can’t grasp the thin threads of those memories and bring their gossamer ribbons back into the forefront of my brain. incredible.
you know how photographs become memories in your mind’s eye? you remember an event or a person as a snapshot, often because you have seen a snapshot of that very event or person.
a snapshot. 1977.
i remember.
all the tactile pieces of the moment, the visceral pieces, the emotional pieces are filed with that snapshot.
the path of your life is punctuated with vivace snapshots, hopefully so numerous that, were it a written symphony, there wouldn’t exist enough instruments to play it, nor would it be able to be performed as quickly as those memorysnapshots travel around in our heads and hearts, one dissolving into the next and the next and the next.
i remember one of the last times i sat in the rocking chair nursing one of my babies to sleep late one night. i distinctly thought to myself – “memorize this moment” – and i did just that….took a snapshot of the moment for my mind’s eye special box of memories and stored it away. i remember how the rocking chair felt, i remember the smell of soft baby in my arms, i remember humming, i remember the physical feeling of nursing, i remember the light and shadow in the room.
but how often do we remember to do this? to actively store away a moment before it fleetingly becomes The Past? we passively, and for good reason in our rushed lives, move from one moment to the next, checking things off the lists we hold. it’s like when you are behind a video camera on christmas morning. (now, i come from the age of VHS cameras and maybe the smaller 8mm size, not iphones on which you could easily record the glee of the holiday.) behind the camera i always felt removed from the moments, missing some of how it felt. sometimes, it is just easier to remember if you don’t have The Movie of it. easier. or better. or more complete. or more important.
i don’t know now what i will do to retrieve the memories that are confused or incomplete. who will i check in with now that the other rememberers are gone? how will i fill in the blanks in between the snapshots? how will i fill in the snapshots? is The Movie of my life now less complete because of the missing details i can’t quite get to? or is The Movie of my life more complete now because i am so aware of that which i can remember AND that which i can’t?
it just is.
the play is over and we move on…and i will be moving back to my piano. but before i do that, i have to think some more about this experience. standing on the stage as an actor in front of two sold-out audiences was…pretty amazing. it took me time to process entering this opportunity and it’s taking me time to process moving into Next.
one of the things david said to me the day of the first performance was something like this: it’s important to not look at the audience as the audience ‘out there’…instead stand here – on the apron of the stage- and invite them in, embrace them. i suddenly recognized this as not so much different than what i do in any of my concerts. i feel as if i am inviting people into my living room (or my home studio)…well, actually, my life…each time i play a concert. and there i was, on the stage as an actor, inviting them in….
i was nervous backstage waiting. i always have eager anticipation in the green room; i spend time pacing and praying and being quiet and internal. i will sip coffee and run through my program in my head. and i fuss with my hair. 
this was much the same. i paced. i prayed. i was quiet and internal and i sipped coffee while running lines in memory. and yes, i fussed with my hair.
i didn’t want to be thinking, thinking, thinking as i stepped into these performances. i knew that would detract from the moment. i found, like in concert, i just needed to be present. if i am performing a piece of music, it is to my detriment if i start to think too much. the preparation is done at that point…it is time to deliver, to share it…yes to invite them in. thinking, at that point, makes it plastic, measured, contrived. and raises the chance of getting lost. just being in it is what makes it fluid, what makes it permeable, what helps it to resonate with someone outside yourself.
and so i stepped out onto the stage, in a role that i am not well-versed in…the role of actor…and i quietly became the characters in the play. i could feel them. this play has a seven-minute long silent section near the end. i had the distinct honor of holding those moments as the audience watched me re-pack a hundred-year-old trunk- a trunk filled with momentos of a ten year old boy who had died from typhoid fever and in which his momma packed all of his belongings and plastered it into the wall of a house on a ranch in california. it was with slow deliberation, weeping, that i re-packed this trunk, in silence, while the audience joined me in these emotional moments. not so unlike telling stories on stage or playing or singing something that resonates with the audience that joins me on the bench.
hmm. i think i am finding a theme here. it’s not so unlike….
and yet, the moment that the stage manager said to me, “i was so wrapped up in what you were doing that i almost missed light cues…” i felt that i was doing good work. and, even more important, when he told me that i had “brought intention” i realized, for sure, that it was exactly the same. no piece of music is without intention. no action on stage is without intention. no breath is without intention. it is to live. to honor. to share. it’s not trying to be convincing. it just IS.
no piano here
musings from a few days ago…
and so here i am…inside the theatre, watching the setup….but this time it isn’t for a concert…it is for a play – ‘the lost boy’ – opening its world premiere performance in california. (oh, did i mention it is sunny and warm here?)
i was just sitting outside (did i mention it is sunny and warm here?) hand-sewing one of the costume fragments for this play. david is inside with some techs painting the platform. i am running lines in my head. it’s not unlike running my music in my head, and yet it’s totally not like running my music in my head. when you are the composer, you have a bit of a free-rein option (eh…who am i kidding? you have a lot of free-rein.) when you aren’t the playwright, you…umm…don’t.
this process has been…interesting for me. this play is an interpretive storytelling…a story of legacy with poignant moments as well as comedic moments. now, as a performing artist i am used to telling stories from the stage…it is part of every concert i perform, every keynote i speak. but the last time i actually acted (in the truest definition of that word)? well, that would be high school – i performed ‘the effect of gamma rays on man-in-the-moon marigolds’….i can’t even remember one line from that. prior to that? well, you need to skip a stone backwards to when i danced with (the infamous) kenny brook in ‘the sound of music’ in sixth grade. not exactly moments of brilliant acting, but please also refer to my exquisitely-portrayed sister bertha – in the same play – for invaluable experience (ok…that might be an exaggeration.) but it certainly counts that kenny was pretty darn cute and i got to dance with him.
the set is simple.
the set is profound.
i have spent many, many hours on the stage…as a performer…as a storyteller…as a solo artist…playing, singing, speaking. this project? this is outside of my box. there isn’t a piano here. no mics. no amber fresnels beaming down on me. i feel like i should offer up a disclaimer to the audience…something like, “by the way…this isn’t what i normally doooo. in real life i……” but no. and so now i am challenged with that very thing that i talk about….stepping outside our own comfort zone and trying on new shoes (speaking of which, i get to wear these great minnetonka mocassins for this production!) stepping outside and making a mess. i get to work at something i am not good at….kind of like playing my cello, only a bit more public. and like we all tend to do, i immediately expect a lot of myself; so i must fight the urge to diminish my potential – what i think i’m capable or not capable of – to resist the learning. how many people around me each week are learning something new (in ukulele band? in the choir i direct? in workshops i lead?)
and so, my empathy button is ‘on’ and i see inside me the way we all try to default to the things we know, when the learning is actually outside of those things. especially the learning about ourselves. i, quite truthfully, find that i need to extend to myself some forgiveness for not knowing, and yes, forgiveness for resisting, forgiveness for feeling vulnerable, and grace in that forgiveness to just try. maybe i’m not sooo bad at this. maybe it’s actually fun. maybe i can actually learn something new…just like everyone else…and maybe, just maybe, i can embrace it. even with no piano here. at the very least, i can realize that, just like everyone else, i find comfort in the familiar. and in stepping into New?…well, i just need to take a breath and move full-speed ahead into that path. no regret, no judgement, no fear. just sisu. it’s all good. (did i mention it is sunny and warm here?)
did i mention it’s sunny and warm here? 🙂
and the curtain’s up.
reverse threading 