reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: baggage


by 1 Comment

bob-marley-ed. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

it’s like having bob marley on our refrigerator. every single time i glance at this bookmark, i can hear mr. marley and the wailers singing. it’s not a bad thing. i mean, what could be bad about hearing reggae in your head? it’s a reminder: don’t get mired in all the blankety-blank of life. in the end, it will all be ok. 

i was gifted the book “don’t sweat the small stuff” decades ago. the book spent 101 weeks on the ny times bestseller list. clearly, the stress consultant/psychotherapist richard carlson had some idea what he was talking about. the rest of the title of his book is “and it’s all small stuff” and the tagline subtitle is “simple ways to keep the little things from taking over your life”. yes. it’s THAT stuff.

we humans tend to immerse in worst-case scenarios – i suppose it’s our nature. and i suppose it depends on all the baggage you have carried with you. it predisposes us and we are burdened by all of it, weighed down by magnifying the things we worry about, convinced every little thing is worthy of our angst.

but then, there are those moments we are reminded – yet again – of the very preciousness of all this – this life. 

we have a stack in the basement. there are spare suitcases, backpacks, small carryons, small totes with zippers. baggage that holds baggage. they are in line to go. next to all the other things that don’t spark joy, next to all the other things that are extraneous, next to all the other things that other people might need more than us. 

with that stack – little by little – i am placing the baggage i have carried internally. as space is created in the basement, in the main part of our house, in the attic, i am lifting the darkness off other spaces that need air. i have no idea what that will mean, how that will change me in any way, what light i will feel.

but the postcard bookmark at the antique shoppe spoke to me. and we purchased it, brought it home and put it on the refrigerator.

on sunday we parked littlebabyscion in front of big red – closer to the garage on our one-car driveway. it was making a funny noise, so, access to big red instead. then on monday, big red refused to start. tuesday morning the browser on my old laptop stopped letting me into my blogsite. last night my crown fell off my tooth. the bathroom sink doesn’t drain quite right. the fridge is still tinkling on the floor every so often. and then, there’s much bigger stuff…things that have impacted me or us dramatically…things that we are dealing with…things on which we spend great deals of emotional and intellectual energy. big stuff. or so we think. at least right now.

but there’s also this: we snuggled under the comforter and the quilt with the window cracked and fell asleep last night. we ate leftovers from a meal we had shared with 20, listening to music our son created and the piano music of kostia – both feeding us. our dog is laying on the bed with us, even as i write this. i can hear the tenor windchimes out back. i have a hydroflask from my daughter that is filled with bold coffee at my side. my dentist is making room for me in his schedule. and we are cleaning out. things that center us.

you just never really know. anything.

on page 185 of “don’t sweat…”, chapter 76 is titled “get comfortable not knowing”. richard must have heard bob marley in his head too.

*****

TAKING STOCK from RIGHT NOW ©️ 2010 kerri sherwood

download music from my little corner of iTUNES

stream on PANDORA

listen on iHEART radio

read DAVID’S thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

like. subscribe. share. support. comment. ~ thank you. xoxo

buymeacoffee is a tip-jar where you may help support artists whose work you value. xoxo


by 1 Comment

the place by the big trees. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

i spent much of last year looking back. way back. way past up-close. way way back – way way past the smallest of trees on the horizon. it was necessary and painful and shocking and mighty tedious.

“… the mind clings to the road it knows / rushing through crossroads / sticking like lint to the familiar…”
(mary oliver)

and then you peel back the lint that is dryer-vent-covering it all. you wipe off the fuzzy pieces. you take a good hard look at what’s really there, at what you have softened with the padding of trying to forget, of stuffing you have piled on top of your frame, of what you have buried, of the traintracks you have sprinted ahead on, leaving the veritable picture of perspective – the v of traintracks running far behind – away away – with trees so small you can barely discern they are trees. and there it all is. raw. 

and you can see it. and your brain tries to stop you from seeing it. both. so you sit with it – laden – burdened – in the retrospect of it all – connecting the dots, sometimes nodding your head in sudden understanding, sometimes eyes wide, horrified at it all.

it is surreal. you are back there. you can feel it. but you know – that in merely a blink – you can be where you are right now…where you are really. 

and suddenly, you are at a crossroads. you must choose between replacing the lint – tamping it back down and turning your face away from it – or recognizing it as a shield, pulling it all out – this ancient insulation – discarding it and then staring at what’s left – what is now feeling air and space and attention. 

“trauma creates change you don’t choose. healing is about creating change you do choose.” (michelle rosenthal)

and then, after some time – some processing, some sorting, some meaning-making, some swearing, much courage, sheer survival – you glance at all the baggage laying next to you – rolliebags and backpacks, crossbody bags and trunks, paper bags and reusable grocery sacks – and you pick up only that which you wish to carry. 

and you make your way back up the tracks to the place you really are. the place by the big trees.

*****

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

like. subscribe. share. support. comment. ~ thank you so much. xoxo

buymeacoffee is a tip-jar website where you may help support the continuing creating of artists whose work you value. xoxo


by 1 Comment

dale of allendale. [two artists tuesday]

dale is a pretty good name for a turkey. but then, so is allen. we decided on dale. (even though i am now, post-visit, thinking allen is funnier.) regardless, dale strutted his stuff around our allendale neighborhood for a few days, acting like he belonged here and we were the aliens.

the first afternoon we saw him, we stopped the car and pretty much just stared at him walking down the sidewalk. he gobbled at us watching him and then harumphed into the street to get to the proverbial other side. then, walking around littlebabyscion, he kept heading west. we saw him another time or two wandering about but haven’t seen him now for days. maybe he moved on or maybe he heard about forest park and headed there – a neighborhood west of us that a turkey named carl called home for quite some time.

i suppose it’s easier to change ‘hoods when you’re a turkey. it’s not like you are carrying much baggage with you. unless he had them stuffed under some bushes somewhere, he carried no suitcases, no boxes or plastic bins. he didn’t have his offspring’s elementary artwork or handwritten stories, the driftwood he found on the ocean, heart rocks he collected on trails, photo albums dating back decades. there were no pots and pans, no spices-in-a-box, no favorite jeans or boots or that old ratty flannel shirt he couldn’t bear to toss out. he had no bill folder, no cellphone, no ipad, no coffee grinder or french press. no cds or dvds or canvases or paintbrushes or pencils or paper.

dale had just nothing. yet he looked as though he was completely confident in the world, wandering, exploring, warbling in that gurgling kind of way. apparently, male turkeys do that most often in the spring when they are looking for love. he must have thought that (one of) thelovesofhislife might be in allendale.

a friend of mine is moving from her home of decades. the decision to move was pragmatic and the move will be generative for them. and yet, there is the whole moving-from piece of it. sometimes i think about that. i understand the need to run and touch every glass doorknob, to brush the woodfloor with one’s fingertips, to wander from room to room, deep in memory. when i think about moving – i know that there would be much stuff to go through, dispose of, to give away. but it’s this place – this house – that holds so many emotions. it’s a mixed bag. after all this time – this town feels like home. after all this time – this town doesn’t feel like home. both are true. the dichotomy of these truths wakes me in the night sometimes and i ponder staying, going.

i used to tell the kids – when they were making a decision – to imagine themselves having made it one way and to feel what that feels like. then, imagine making it the other way and try to immerse in how that feels. it’s not always possible, but sometimes it’s an exercise that helps. in the middle of the night, it’s a seesaw.

what i do know is – as i look around this cherished home – that i must turkey-down. not so much on the main floors, but most definitely in the basement where the bins and boxes are stacked, waiting maybe for dale to come and retrieve them.

ahh, but dale is footloose and fancy-free and he has no interest in such baggage. he’s got places to go and things to see. he’s got a world to love. he blows a kiss to allendale and moves on.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

buymeacoffee.com if you’d like to support our writingwritingwriting


by 1 Comment

more squirrel. [merely-a-thought monday]

there are likely few decisions that a squirrel must make. certainly, one of those would not be whether or not to save something for a special occasion. what would they save? there are no accoutrements, no accessories, no cute or practical boots, no fancy necklaces or earrings. no new tunics or jeans or jackets or, well, anything that i, on the other hand, am likely to “save for good”. life must be easier as a squirrel – in some ways. sometimes i think about these things.

my sweet momma was a paradox this way. she, along with mary engelbreit – who indeed would have been her friend – surely believed that being alive was a special occasion. at the same time, she saved things for “special occasions” though she believed those were every day. in the way that things are passed down, i inherited this trait – to save things for “good” – and i am striving to eliminate my resistance to using the special stuff on ordinary days. paradox-baggage-laden from my momma, i, too, believe that the ordinary is really quite extraordinary, yet using new or special stuff has remained tough for me. philosophy-at-heart vs practicality-in-action. sheesh.

we had dinner together a few evenings ago – the up-north gang. we glanced into the dining room from the kitchen – where we were loading up our plates with happy hour snacks – and exclaimed, “china! you are using your china!”. it made us all smile. it wasn’t an ordinary day.

we dined on momma’s-china-now-passed-down in florida one evening. all the holidays of younger life came rushing forward and the soft pink rose on white set a tone of celebration. for moments, i was back in my growing-up dining room. and then i returned, sitting at the table, the china generation-passed-through with everyone a little bit older. it wasn’t an ordinary day.

and as i sat at these tables, with fine settings of beautiful china, surrounded by dear people telling stories and laughing, i was struck – once again – by how really extraordinary it all is. no ordinary days.

i thought about the squirrel, whose sweet prints i had photographed, who dashed here and there, never looking crabby or like things were just ordinary. the squirrel just set about to living, each and every day of its shorter-than-our life, instinctively happily doing squirrel things.

right now i can think of a tunic and a canvas crossbody purse – both of which are brand new (and have been brand new for quite some time). i truly like both of them and purchased them in towns we love, so they are practical souvenirs, remnants of experiences in those places. but i haven’t used either one. yet. i’m not sure what i am waiting for; it’s just that inherent thing that makes me wait. my sister did not inherit that; she has no propensity for saving new stuff. she is clearly more happy-go-lucky-in-the-moment-squirrel than i am in my squirreling-it-away-squirrel. she and my poppo – he’d get new shoes (something he loved) and he’d wear them right away. another paradox. this from the man who would turn boxes inside-out to re-use them. but, in the category of new stuff, my sister has poppo-use-it-now-tendency.

and then i think about squirrels a little more and how those squirrels gather, gather, gather and store away all they have gathered. happy little savers, they have a cache of food, untouched, waiting. perhaps there are tunics and boots and purses and flipflops and new jeans, new notebooks and pristine journals in there as well. all waiting for “good”.

i guess – in actuality – i am more squirrel than my sister. me and my momma. but i’m working on it. wear the crystals. use the good china.

because both my momma and i know it’s all a special occasion.

*****

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


by 3 Comments

divots and heart. [k.s. friday]

we checked our bags. southwest airlines lets you check two and, as long as you trust that they will actually get them to the same destination to which you are traveling at the same time that you are traveling there, it’s a relief for the prior-to-travel packing frenzy.

there were many golf bags going ’round the baggage claim conveyor. none of them were ours.

i have golf clubs. in the basement. or maybe in the garage. no, i think the basement. i am not much of a golfer, though i have golfed. let’s just say that i am not gifted at the swing…or the stance…or the putt. really, none of it, save driving the golf cart.

i think golf would be more fun without the scorecards and the tiny pencils. so much pressure. everyone – despite their ability level – chasing after this one little ball, getting all crabby-like and self-deprecating…all under so much pressure.

one time i got a 91. people seem relatively impressed with this score. they comment, “wow! that’s pretty good for a total novice! (they can’t think of a word that is lower on the golf-ladder than novice.) really, that’s good! a 91 on 18 holes!”

i take my time replying.

“it was 9.”

“9 holes.”

their look tells all – they are trying not to burst into laughter or look astounded and are likely internally blaming me for all the divots on the course – every last one of them. because i have swung the club a zillion more times than any of them, in every part of the course. at least twice as many times as they have. and i am exhausted just thinking about how tired my arms – and really, every part of my body – have been after a “fun” round of golf. yes, indeedy.

i do think that d and i should go play golf together. we would likely laugh our way through the course, so we need to go when no one is behind us, grousing about how long we are taking or commenting on our pathetic swings. if no one was around we could replace our divots without judgement or sneers from the sideline. a smirkless round of golf could actually be fun. pressureless. pencil-less. one of these days. first i need a few golf lessons from sisu sue. she would be the best teacher.

we walked on the bike trail a few times recently. once, it was just after a few snowflakes fell. the tiny divot in the asphalt caught the flakes just so we would notice the heart as we hiked by. prior to that – though i put my heart into every one of those swings and they all just didn’t notice – the word “divot” made me cringe a little, thinking of my personal golf je ne sais quoi.

but now…i’m honoring the chop.

*****

the entire album: RELEASED FROM THE HEART
©️1995 kerri sherwood

download on my little corner of iTUNES

stream on PANDORA

read DAVID’S thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY


by Leave a comment

pointed at wonder. [merely-a-thought monday]

my yashica fx-2 35mm camera went everywhere with me. a prized possession i had gotten for my high school graduation, it opened my vision of the world, the things i looked at. in the days of film and negatives and developing, i was an enthusiastic participant, eating boxes of cornflakes so that i could develop the next roll and the next.

i passed through the minolta auto-exposure-auto-focus phase when my children were young. it was easier to grab the camera and snap a picture of them doing something amazing or indescribably adorable with the auto-camera.

then came the sony tiny-cameras you could slide into your pocket, also easy and accessible. that camera and the minolta and my treasured yashica are still around here somewhere, lenses for the 35mm in a hard-shell briefcase my dad designed with foam fitting around the wide-angle and telephoto choices.

in these days i carry my phone. it is the height of easy and always right there, ready to record a moment. in recent years, i have rediscovered the utter joy of taking photographs, of recording the sun glimmering on dogdog’s fur, of capturing the blossom as it wanes and the curl of the wave and the way the mountains look in a dark sky. a camera pointed at wonder.

“come forth into the light of things. let nature be your teacher.” (william wordsworth – from today’s daily wonder app)

i haven’t opened the “daily wonder” app in a while. i discovered it when we chose and featured the movie “wonder” on island. a single snippet of thought for your day, it is a tiny gift i had forgotten about, often reminding you of the wonder of simply being here.

we carry the not-so-wondrous around in heavy baggage, somewhat unwilling to part with it, feeling as if it somehow defines us. how buoyant we might be without it, how resilient. letting go might yield a smidge of wonder.

one evening, watching “life below zero” one of the intrepid alaskans said, “bring the wonder back in life” and i grabbed my phone to jot it down. as we travel to his memorial service to honor columbus’ life and his earnest grasp on happy-living, intentionally marveling, i know he would immediately agree with the person who said that.

undoubtedly, he would laugh a little and add that the wonder was always there.

*****

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


by Leave a comment

in half and in half again. [merely-a-thought monday]

anna quindlen writes about it in “a short guide to a happy life“. the dividing line between before and after. we all have them. though mathematically incorrect for this lyric, as “sawed in half” only leaves the other half, many of us have more than one dividing line, more than one qualifier of our lives, more than one change agent.

i remember my first apartment. it was on long island in a basement partially paneled and partially wallpapered with red brick wallpaper. my dog missi and i moved in with my old piano, a convertible couch, beanbag chairs, a bookshelf and a bistro set. i had free bank-account-giveaway plates and cheap silverware my grandmother gave me, forks, spoons, knives still in my drawer to this day. i had a tiny kitchen in this studio and, though i cooked often, missi and i both ate plenty of cornflakes for plenty of meals. it was not fancy but it was mine.

after i was sawed in half i had to move and, ultimately, found myself in florida, seeking safety from a man whose aggressive pedophilia was predatory, for whom vengeance was foremost. everything was different. from those moments on. there was no going back, no return to innocence. the dividing line was stark and, in 1979, there was no real resource for processing it.

since then i’ve had a few more dividing lines. but, i have found in many purposeful meanderings through my lifeline in recollections and in much intentional parsing out of cause and effect relationships, that many of them relate back to the first sawing-in-half.

having children did not ‘saw’ me in half, but it indeed sawed time into before and after, for nothing would ever be the same and all my after has been waking and going to sleep thinking about them and wishing for their good health, good relationships, good work, love. there can scarcely be a parent who has not been profoundly changed by having children. before. after.

the loss of my big brother came as a mortality-blow. i had lost grandparents at that point, but their lives had been full and eight and nine decades long. my brother had merely reached his fourth decade – forty – an age twenty years ago now for me – and it was premature and devastating. he had been a stalwart rock for me in my years-post-first-sawing and to lose his wisdom and strength had me questioning how the world could go on without him feeling it. it divided time – from a more casual look at life to a more intensely emotional connection to those around me than i already had. if i am needy, emotionally, it is grasping on to beloveds. though i know i must not hold too tightly, i have likely not always succeeded at that, but i try to be at least close enough to always at least feel the wind from their wings. it’s not always possible and it’s sometimes impossible, and i yearn to have my family right close to me as many friends have, but i try – that word again – to trust life and its gifts.

the day i realized that there was no one left to ask questions of my birth, my childhood, my teenage years, the intrepid and enduring memories moms and dads have, i stared at lake michigan. i won’t forget that moment. i was wondering about my first time on the lake on a sailboat and i suddenly was aware that, without my sweet momma and poppo still here, there would be no answers that i could not remember myself. it came with intensity and orphan-hood surprised me – even then, at 56.

there are other lines in the sand, other befores and afters. relationships, jobs, places, mistakes and learnings, successes and failures. they all count, like every slice of blueberry pie making up the whole, even every rich ingredient making up the slice. the passage of time is a vast bakery of experiences, some more contingent on others, some more independent.

so when the song “life is long” came on at the end of the grace and frankie episode while i was on the treadmill and david was on the bike i was struck by the lyric “sawed in half by the passage of time”. i spoke into my phone recording the words i had just heard, words that made time pause like the button on the netflix video.

and i stared into the timeline in my mind, thinking about life sliced up like pie – a little less vigorously than a saw – but with just as much impact.

*****

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


by Leave a comment

“i forgive you.” [merely-a-thought monday]

i forgive you

frank made sure to bring us the dvd.  our favorite of the hallmark christmas movies, a season for miracles was scheduled for tv viewing at a time we were not available.   and he knows.  frank knows how much we love this movie during this season.  we, i have to admit, spend just a little bit of time watching hallmark christmas movies, despite their obvious indulgence to happy-endings-aficionados.  a season for miracles is such a story, but there are these lovely lines spoken by patty duke toward the end, that inevitable-anticipated-yet-yearned-for end.  she wisely advises one of the stars of the movie, giving him something to consider,  “i forgive you.  there’s a lot of power in those three words.  they can change the world.”

yesterday i sang these lyrics, “all these pieces broken and scattered, in mercy gathered, mended and whole.  empty handed but not forsaken.  i’ve been set free, i’ve been set free.” (broken vessels – j. houston, j. myrin)

in true cliche, i would, indeed, say we are all broken by pieces we need to forgive, things for which we need forgiveness.  we carry these burdens like heavy luggage, dragging them day by day, place to place.  nary a moment goes by without our minds summoning up a reason to be dismayed or disgusted with someone, disappointed in ourselves.  we are not free.

is it pollyanna-ish to believe that the world would be changed if forgiveness were paramount?  is it an irrational, unreachable panacea for all the divisiveness and turmoil?  is there just too much purity – too much hallmark – in those words, in that kind of peace-seeking?

if you could, who would share the third seat in a room with you and forgiveness?  with whom would you seek forgiveness from?  who would you forgive?

is it better to be mended and empty-handed than holding-on-tightly-burdened with sharp, broken pieces that pierce your heart?  where is your free?

it is a season for miracles.

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

star website box

 

 

 

 

 

 


by Leave a comment

earth interrupted’s brown bags. [d.r. thursday]

EarthInterrupted3 copy

there are moments when everything seems like a big deal.  our own planet earth is up close and personal, every concern a meteor about to threaten our very existence.  the sum of the individual pieces too much to bear.  we wonder, wonder, “what is going on?!”

and then there are moments when perspective reigns.  when we can step back, see the bigger picture and realize that everyone has their brown paper bags full of baggage, of difficulties, of things to sort, to keep, to ruthlessly throw away.  the moments when you stare up at the night sky into the milky way and feel ever-so-small, knowing that you are alive and this very moment will not pass again.

EARTH INTERRUPTED.  pieces of everyone’s brown bags, torn, scattered and intermingled.  no longer baggage-holding.  an earth close-up and glowing.  full of the hope of it all fitting together:  people, issues, problems, loves, wishes, peace.

view/purchase EARTH INTERRUPTED III on david’s gallery site

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

seagull in fog website box


by Leave a comment

baggage. [merely-a-thought monday]

your past

“your past should not dictate your future.”

we carry it all with us.  baggage.  baggage upon baggage upon baggage.  i once (poorly) drew a graphic of a stick person with an “outbreak of baggage”.   rollie bags and attaches, spinners and hardshells, suitcases and totes; i depicted a person with multiples of these, pulling and dragging and lugging them everywhere. each experience shoved into the depths of some piece of luggage; more and more loaded into expandable bags, the zippers stretched to the breaking point.  we lose sleep, perseverating over all the baggage we have.  the wee hours of the night nag us; we miss the hope of the sunrise.

but the sunrise happens nonetheless.  and the grace of a new day is gifted to us.  just as the tide-wave rushes in to the shoreline and cleanses the beach, washing away the footprints of the previous day, smoothing the rough edges, so does the new day grant us another chance.  we stand – present – right now, feet neither in yesterday nor in tomorrow.  our load is lessened, our baggage drops away.  we are freed to step lightly into next.  for our past does not dictate our future.

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

sunrisewebsite