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Tag Archives: be here now


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

there is this corner in our lakefront neighborhood. we take walks around the ‘hood, looking forward to this particular spot.

in the middle of every other nod to autumn, this corner glows. the maples there are in soft focus – all golden and pink. it is like seeing through a filter, stepping under a fresnel spot with a lighting gel. we make room to stop and take it in…each and every time we pass by.

some things are like that. we know them well and, yet, we anticipate them, knowing how they make us feel, knowing that we will be better for them. these trees.

there are spots on our favorite trails like this…when we enter the pine stands or when the trail curves through the forest…when we walk high above the river below us…when we turn into the afternoon sun with the meadow to our right. there is a spot as we come out of the tunnel on the highway and i can see the high rockies stretching out in front of us. there is a spot on the ditch trail in aspen – at the end – deep in the woods where there are rocks you can sit on as the stream breaks around you. there is a fallen log in breckenridge, up a ways on the path, next to the brook. there is another higher, in the meadow that opens to the sky.

someday, i will go stand again where my daughter and i stood, in canyonlands, and i will satisfy the anticipation of being there – in that spot of unspeakable emotion – once again.

someday, i will go stand on crab meadow beach again and – with anticipation and all-that-has-been-since washing over me – maybe i will feel what i used to feel there, way way earlier, the freedom of being, the anticipation of future.

the knowing of these places doesn’t take them off the list of places-to-go. rather, it’s the sheer knowing that keeps them on the list. it’s the recognition, the familiarity, the unbridled comfort.

as we turn the corner and look ahead, we can see the trees down at the next intersection. so much beauty. we both look forward to getting closer.

we are not on a luxurious vacation nor are we rambling much away from our careful budget. we are recognizing the we-are-here-ness and that is what we have right now – we have right now. if we can remember to anticipate each moment this way, we will truly be living.

and then, there is the feeling when we see our driveway, when we walk in the door. the spotlight pulls back and bathes our home in gratitude.

*****

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

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there is this. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

tuesday was a beautiful day. inordinately warm for late october, the sun drenched everything in autumn light – it all seemed to glow. it was a good day, particularly after monday. some days are just hard.

we took a long hike.

we sorted.

we processed.

with our feet on the ground – solidly – shuffling through fallen leaves – every sense alive, aware – we talked about all that was happening. the warm air around us helped.

our conversation never lulled; there is much to talk about. the world – the fighting. our country – the division. our community. climate change and its toll. friends who have experienced the sudden and unexpected loss of others. trauma that doesn’t release its grip. challenges of our very own. so much.

with each step into the sun, we both – once again – marveled at the moment in time where we would link arms, hold hands and walk together. sifting through all the colors, through all the layers, through all the everything, there is this.

and we are a little less tired.

“hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come.” (anne lamott)

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

DANCING IN THE FRONT YARD acrylic 24″x24″

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life itself. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

“we got the chance to be young and the chance to grow old.” (kate)

in her next breath, her voice huskier with emotion, she added, “not everyone has had that chance.”

in the arc of the art of living, we hold gratitude for this very life.

and, hopefully, somewhere in there we have gained some wisdom. hopefully, somewhere in there we have held love and relationships before material gain. hopefully, somewhere in there we have chosen truth over institution or divisive politics or agenda. hopefully, somewhere in there we have helped someone else and we have tried to grasp what it might be like walking in their shoes. hopefully, somewhere in there we have stood in a sunrise or sunset, incredulous. hopefully, somewhere in there we have seen extraordinary color and shape in art, heard exquisite frequencies of pitch and timbre in music, moved in a dance, read words we store away to never forget. hopefully, somewhere in there we have granted and been given grace. hopefully, somewhere in there we have felt the flimsy threads of a floating dandelion seed, the solid rough granite, the dirt, beneath our feet, the breaking wave on a shore or a stream as it flows through our fingers, rain and sun on our faces, the embrace of a beloved, the wind carrying the love and wisdom of the arcs of all before us.

hopefully, we hold life itself – breathing – tenderly.

*****

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

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bistro table. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

to sit at a bistro table – to eat a meal, to sip wine, to talk and linger – such a simple pleasure, so rich, brimming with visions of sidewalk cafes and closely sharing time. we bring to any table the joy of being together, the gift of gathering. there is not much Lovely that a bistro table and wrought iron chairs doesn’t elicit for me.

what we bring to the table…this pause in our day…a sacred preparing of foods for those we care about. in those moments of frenetic movement, of too-busy-busy-ness, of emotional or physical overload, this pause – at the table – to slow down and relish taste – to breathe the air of another – to sate our hunger and stoke our energy – moments we so often rush through.

and so, i think maybe i will approach any table instead as if i am about to sit at a bistro table, about to hold time in a little bit of suspension to enjoy whatever the meal may be – simple or fancy – unadorned or with a beautiful table-setting. i’ll bring to the table my utter appreciation for sustenance, for those i am gathered with – even if alone – for the act of living. i’ll bring to the table my knowing that this ritual of goodness – to eat, to carry on, to experience hunger, to eat – is a privilege i have enjoyed my whole life – even when my hunger was bigger but my dinner was cornflakes. i’ll bring to the table gratitude for taste, for texture, for spice and organic, for the delicious.

and i’ll sit at the table acknowledging the very moments there. i’ll collect my table-sittings in my oeuvre of song and prose that will scatter someday into the galaxy. too often we forget we are merely blips in the compendium of the universe and each good moment that is ours is truly a gift of time, a wonder.

and so, i’ll bistro-table each meal.

*****

GOOD MOMENTS from THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY ©️ 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood

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read DAVID’S thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

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

“…and i got saved by the beauty of the world.” (mary oliver)

there are the tiniest of moments – like this one – when everything harsh, everything wrought, everything dark or full of angst, everything of challenge just falls away. like the universe took a feather duster to the worries stoked up on your shoulders and reminded you. to breathe. to feel the realness of the moment. to be hyper-vigilant of all senses. to be in it.

it could just as easily slipped by, unnoticed. the fresh air, rich colors, the sun filtered through layers of pine, the scent of a humid summer day, the gravel path. it could have been lost.

but i am grateful to have stopped. i am grateful any time i remember to stop. to have perspective. to grasp onto the tiniests. to allow myself to be saved by the beauty of the world.

*****

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

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

in downtown chicago, it is not uncommon to walk under highways or tracks carrying heavy railroad cars, the metra, the el, freight carriers.

but out on a trail, meandering alongside a river, through meadows and forests, passing fishermen and being passed by marathon-aspiring bikers, with turtles and baby snakes, heron and mosquitoes punctuating our hike, it seems really odd – and slightly unnerving – to walk under the “i”.

you can’t help but look up at the cars and trucks going 70 or 80 mph just above you. i shudder to think of the infrastructure problems that might abound. 86% of bridges in the state of illinois are considered acceptable. i just want to be sure this particular bridge is not part of the other 14%.

as i have some trepidation under vehicle and railroad bridges, my imagination is working a little overtime as i slither underneath the overpass, my eyes on the light coming from the other side. it’s much cooler under the bridge – and surprisingly quieter than before we entered – and there is a pigeon who is touting his wisdom for hanging out where it is sheltered. but most pigeons are not civil engineers nor do they really worry themselves about that sort of thing. i speak softly to it as we pass; it’s not frightened, even of us.

of all the trails we have taken in our general area – i have to say this section hike of the river trail was the least satisfying. we were in a triangular map-section of three large highways, including the interstate. so we weren’t ever far from the noise. and noise – and general hubbub – is what we are trying to escape on a trail. nevertheless, i’m glad we section-hiked that part. it surely makes us appreciate the rest of the trail, in quieter areas, removed a bit from the ruckus of daily life.

perspective is a funny thing. there are times we get sort of lax in appreciation. we take for granted the everyday luxuries of contemporary life, the ease of movement, our connections to family and friends. we see same-same through the same eyes. it’s a theme with variations.

and then, there was the pigeon. it found its safe place under the underpass – a place where it was cool, where the river ran and it could sip, where the insects and worms might be plentiful, where passersby might toss it a morsel or two. it didn’t seem to mind that the interstate was directly above, that this spot was not nirvana for most.

idyllic is in the eye of the beholder. so is wonder. in a busy world, they are easy to miss, easy to same-old-same-old-put-aside.

so, instead of dissing the trail that went under the interstate, i’ve decided to be in amazement that we walked under a road that hosts a daily average of 1.5 million cars of people driving to their destinations. and that on the way back on our eight or so mile hike, we could stop and linger with the pigeon, out of the hot sun.

sharpening the dulled, putting new eyes on the ordinary.

*****

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

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for right now. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

“the sun shines not on us but in us. the rivers flow not past, but through us. thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of the substance of our bodies, making them glide and sing. the trees wave and the flowers bloom in our bodies as well as our souls, and every bird song, wind song, and tremendous storm song of the rocks in the heart of the mountains is our song, our very own, and sings our love.” (john muir)

there have been moments – holy and glorious moments – when i remember that i am, yes, one with nature. i am no more or less a part of the whole than the heart-leaf on the side of the trail, no more or less a part of the whole than the rocks on the beach, no more or less a part of the whole than the cloud as it floats by. and i remember that in my tiny-ness – within the vastness – i could just as easily have been the energy of the leaf or the rock or the cloud.

“how will you spend your time?” asked the thru-hiker at the end of the trail. mary oliver asks the same, “what will you do with your one precious life?”

i realize – in these sacred and suspended moments when i can feel the threads of soul connect me to the trees, to the living plants, to the creatures – that i am, perhaps, spending too much time in worry.

i am alive. and, for right now, that is enough.

*****

GRACE from RIGHT NOW ©️ 2010 kerri sherwood

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

and there is nothing about sunflowers most people don’t love. a brilliant statement, profound color, turned to the sun, following the sun, seeking to be nourished, supersized flowers that are hard to miss.

they stood proudly in a tall vase on our dining room table for a week – cheering us on, a direct line to the sun’s energy, the love of the universe. they didn’t try hard – they were divine without trying.

and then, just as remarkable as in their standing, their reaching up-up, they began to bow. deep curves of thick stems turning down, toward the tabletop, the disk florets invisible, the yellow-orange ray flowers starting to brown and curl, green phyllaries twisting and lifting away from the back of the disks. a graceful bow, with no effort to resist succumbing to this bending down.

there are most definitely times that we would be served well to stop standing, to stop reaching, and instead to bow down, to lower our constantly-looking-forward gaze and, instead, to rest in a moment of humility, a moment of be-here-now, a moment of gratitude.

maybe this is what makes sunflowers so mighty. they instinctively know that there will be balance. they know that they will not always be tall and upright, gorgeous and fresh, colorful and crisp. they know that they will someday be arched over, wrinkly, no longer striving to be lofty. that they will arc on their strong stalk and they will humbly move into next. they know this wilting is no less important than blooming, for it is in wilting that seeds are released and a new lifecycle is possible. they know both are ever-relevant.

right now we are standing in vases, our faces to the sun. we are soaking up whatever energy we can grasp. we are aware that time flies by on the whisper of the jet stream, on the spinning-spinning of the earth’s axis.

soon, we begin to bow, ever so slightly. we lean a bit on the next big blossom of disks and ray-petals. we wrinkle and wobble in place, lowering our gaze to take in those around us. and then, after much time has passed in the sun, we bow in appreciation. there will be many more.

and we know we have made a mark in our blooming and in our wilting. for we, too, are mighty sunflowers.

*****

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

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forest periscope. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

there are metaphoric moments like this.

you are surrounded by the forest – dense, unyielding, a bit dark. though there are paths, they are still shadowed by big trees, overgrowth that doesn’t seem to allow in the light. and then – as you are plodding on and on, making an effort to maintain your equilibrium, to stay in center, you come to the tiniest clearing. and, looking up, there is sky. clear blue sky.

a periscope to the universe.

and suddenly, your worries and angsts, your doubts, your lost road are scaled down, lessened to tiny pinpricks of stars, unseen in the day-sky, though ever-there, allayed in the bluest-blue, soothing hope in the periscope, a reminder of perspective and time and expanse and right now.

and you stand, with all the creatures in the forest, and look up – for minutes and minutes unblinking until you are slightly dizzy from your stillness. and you lower your head, stretching your neck, your gaze-to-the-heavens broken.

but you are moved. you are reminded of your tiny-ness in the vastness. you remember you are part of this universe and, that just as you are not alone in the light that the leaf-periscope offers, you are not alone in the dark either.

you breathe. a deep breath. a prayer. a gratitude.

and you walk on in the forest, knowing, for certain, that you will find natural clearings with big spaces of light. knowing, too, that curling your hand into itself and peering through – like a hand-periscope – you can focus on smaller bits of the forest and within it, find the bits of light between the leaves.

*****

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

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and wings. [two artists tuesday]

his legs wrapped tightly around the garden fence, the cicada gave in to his time of transformation.

i found him when i was watering. i bent down to pull a weed by the low fencing and there he was, clinging with all his might to the thin metal frame, following his call of nature, nymph to adult. the transition is recognizable. the two creatures look remarkably different, so it is easy to tell which is the mature cicada.

it’s the second time we have been witness to part of the cicada’s metamorphosis. the first time the cicada was clinging to the deck and we watched the whole fascinating process. this time, we came upon the cicada after it had shed its old skin, the outer exoskeleton having molted off into the dirt. both were profound for us. the giving over, the trusting of transformation, gaining wings, going on into next as something quite different.

“life is not so much about beginnings and endings as it is about going on and on and on. it is about muddling through the middle.” (anna quindlen)

and in the middle, the holding on. legs – and arms – wrapped around the garden fence of our lives, clutching for dear life. to be in the middle – sorting and pondering, full of wonder and angst – we can only trust that each next will arrive, that the on and on will not betray us, that we will not betray the on and on. the cicada surrenders, relinquishes any worry of what is to come.

and then, it wakes soon after, having pushed its way through the deadened shell. with wings. wings! exuberant noise fills the summer air. i know i will listen for our garden-fence-cicada on hot nights when the sun is setting and dusk is on the sky.

and we – in our metamorphosis from one day to another – sorting and pondering on our fence – begin to know that wings are possible. we learn that we have had them all along. we untuck them, test them out, flex a little, grow stronger. and we are astounded to learn – like the cicada – that we can fly.

“i want to be light and frolicsome. i want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing, as though i had wings.” (mary oliver)

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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