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200%. [k.s. friday]

i own 200% of my original pieces of music, my original songs. 100% of that is the compositional copyright and the other 100% is the sound recording copyright. with the exception of one vocal song which i collab’ed on, and one song where i gave my dueting partner a percentage for a few lyrics he changed, i have solely written each piece.

i did not find myself near the bluebird cafe in nashville or any of the listening rooms in nyc or los angeles when i was writing any of these albums. by the time i was writing for albums i would be recording, i was a mom of two small children, one a tiny toddler. my writing took place in the midst of potty-training and reading stacks of books, pbj’s and grilled cheese with the crust cut off. my growing-up piano was the instrument on which i wrote my first three albums, surrounded by barbies and matchbox cars, vhs tapes of barney and disney movies. i wrote with children on the bench, children under the bench, children on my lap.

in my most recent composing, a bit ago now, i still found myself writing this way…with many plates spinning and in short spurts of dedicated time. it was a practice i honed through the years and it served me well, this multi-tasking.

vocal song lyrics are found on scraps of paper, on pa-pads, on napkins, with letter names of notes and jotted rhythmic gestures next to the words. some of these took weeks of fine-tuning, changes and wordsmithing. others took ten minutes. total. slow dance is one of those.

the album as sure as the sun is one that celebrates life and love and relationship, in its many facets. after five instrumental albums (and another nine albums later) with the very best producer – also my arranger and a consummate musician – i worked with a nashville producer on this vocal full-length. in los angeles for some pre-recording meetings, we put the song same sweet love to pencil and paper, adding it to the lineup for asats production. it’s a totally different energy to collaborate on a song – to share the writing – and something i had little experience with. we both ended up singing on this song and we co-own it.

the very wide spectrum of love – and its impact, its mystery, its universally understoodness (and not-understoodness) – is one of the emotions to which songwriters gravitate. powerful and complex, there is no limit to reaching listeners, a strong connection the tie between music and emotions, a driving force.

i’ve read that a recent psychology of music study revealed that in every decade over the past six decades (since 1960), as much as 67% of all song lyrics were about romantic love. it’s not surprising.

when i do pick up pencil and paper again, looking at the line-up of songs already written for a potential next vocal album, i’d imagine that there may be some editing. i’d imagine that the arvo pärt note-smith will step into the instrumentals. i’d imagine that some lyrics will change in the line-up, maybe a melodic gesture or two, maybe the harmonic structure. i’d imagine that – maybe – in the review of these last years there might be a few new pieces, maybe a whole album’s worth of songs or instrumentals that muster their way past my editing delete-r.

i’d guess that there might be songs about transition, about relevance, about aging, about simplicity. i’d guess that there might be songs about hard decisions, hard times, hard losses. i’d guess that there might be songs about love, in all the corners of one’s life.

and i’d guess i’ll own 200%, back in my studio, comfortable writing alone.

*****

SLOW DANCE from AS SURE AS THE SUN ©️ 2002 kerri sherwood

SAME SWEET LOVE from AS SURE AS THE SUN ©️ 2022 kerri sherwood PLEASE NOTE: this song and this album are not jazz nor does rumblefish own any part of the copyright associated with this album.

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teasel tease. [d.r. thursday]

“if left unchecked, teasel can form large dense patches and severely impact a habitat planting. teasel can be very difficult to manage because once established it pollutes the soil with durable seed that can germinate throughout the growing season.” (plantscience.psu.edu)

“leaves have spines on the underside of the midvein and smaller spines on bases on the upper leaf surface. the stem leaves are opposite and prickly, especially on the lower side of the leaf midvein.” (nwcb.wa.gov)

“handling teasel is best done with heavy gloves, every part of the plant is prickly to the point of piercing human skin.” (fairegarden.wordpress.com)

“once teasels become established in an area, they are hard to eradicate.” (fllt.org)

“if left unchecked, teasel quickly can form large monocultures excluding all native vegetation.” (illinois.edu)

if left unchecked…

it would seem these teasel beg the metaphoric reference to people within communities. it is no wonder – in these times – that my mind immediately goes there.

but teasels are beautiful, with interesting texture. like the flat-back-hand-carder for the vintage spinning wheel in our basement that cards wool or raises the nap on fabric, they were utilized for decades and were initially cultivated from the old world. they appear in planted gardens for their dominant sculptural presence and in meadows, growing wild and free.

on a quest – every day – to take photographs, i find myself back at 18. i was given my first 35mm camera when i graduated from high school early, my parents pretty certain i would love it. i did. i was out the next day, walking the beach in winter, reveling in capturing it all. i took that camera everywhere and took pictures of everything, reveling in the freedom of aperture and shutter speed. the deliberate taking of photographs brings one to center, into presence – there is no need for speed. instead, it is about slow movement, about noticing, about paying attention.

and i am – lately – feeling a tad bit back-there. at 18. the tiny lone flower, the shadow, the curl of bark – they get my attention. i pause.

these teasel stopped me. there was a teasing tension between their color, their thorns, the sky, the pine trees in the background. the juxtaposition of the bristle and the luminous. beautiful. i, too, couldn’t resist the teasel.

“despite its noxiousness, it’s impossible not to find the teasel rather endearing…” (jacqueline stuhmiller, fllt.org)

one just needs remember the thorns.

be wary. don’t hug a teasel.

*****

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allendale’s corner store. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

ann’s corner store – forever in my mind fondly known as ‘southport pantry’ – keeps us in ice.

for some reason, and i know it’s a popular problem, our fridge has refused to make more ice. not another cube! not even a shaved kernel. none. it’s not an old fridge – well, it didn’t feel old until a moment ago when i realized i purchased it in 2013 – but, wait…is ten years old for a fridge now? hello? kitchenaid?? anyway, it’s not as old as any of our other appliances, so we sort of expect it to work a tad bit more, say, maybe, completely. it also has this other problem. it’s a bottom drawer freezer and under the drawer a skating rink of ice forms and then, the reason unbeknownst to me since fridge and freezer both imply COLD, it melts tiny puddles onto the floor from time to time. so, from time to time, i defrost this sheet of ice – trying to make the pieces as big as possible – kind of like when you are peeling a (i’m dating myself here) drake’s yodel cake or a sunburn (ewww, you say!). and then, the clock starts all over again.

even now – as i write this ahead of time – muggy humidity is streaming in the open windows raising the “feels like” temperature and lowering my sense of humor. post-menopause is not necessarily synonymous with “loves to be hot”. i am picturing myself high on a mountain or maybe in the northernmost reaches of maine. (and i’m not even in the absolutely brutal southwest or southeast.) what that means is – we need ice.

that brings me to ann’s little store – morelli’s deli. because ice melts – a natural phenomenon – we try to buy it close and race it home. even with a cooler, it has the possibility of turning into one large lumpy lump of ice rather than chunks of broken up ice, so one must be ever-thinking when one purchases ice. so we buy it at ann’s. i’m pretty sure we are not keeping ann’s corner store going with our ice purchases, but if everyone in the ‘hood were to buy something there – often – it would surely help keep this family business going. it was pretty exciting the day we realized she added wine to her wares, stocking many labels, many varietals. it meant we could take a long walk around allendale and the lakefront and stop and purchase a bottle of wine for happy hour – without getting in the car. all the adult beverages at our wedding were provided by ann, so we do have a soft spot for that place.

there are many places in our travels we glance over at a shoppe and wonder aloud how they are able to keep going, to pay the overhead, to make a little money, to stay open. it’s been a crazy time and i suspect that the craziness – financially speaking for middle-class americans – is not ending. soon, student loan payments will be restored and, i suspect, the power companies will raise their rates again in time for winter. the cable/internet/phone company – with whom i have spent several hours of my life in the last week – will perk up its billing with some additional package fees or the unpromoted end of promotional deals and the health insurance EOBs that arrive in people’s homes will surprise households with uncovered expenses.

so, it’s no small wonder that ann and tom – in their zeal to run a family store and keep allendale in italian beef and homemade soups and guac, chips and kringle, coffee and spirits – are succeeding one baby step at a time. their business challenges must be grand, like so many of us who own a business. but their commitment to this community has been and is commendable and heartwarming and we are fiercely dedicated to their success. they know practically everybody. and still remember tiny craig running in with the car change purse to buy donuts.

and so, for however long it is that our freezer just refuses to freeze water into icecubes, we will get our ice from ann’s. and then, if we are lucky enough someday to have an in-fridge icemaker that works, well, we’ll get other stuff there.

because not everyone is lucky enough to have a corner store around the corner and down the block. but we do. and we love going there.

*****

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brush to canvas. [two artists tuesday]

from a distance they are paintbrushes, sporadically appearing in the meadow, catching plumes of downy fluff that spread like thick contrails, and, catching the wind, fly off. i can imagine plucking one of these paintbrushes, dipping it in paint, touching it to canvas, light strokes of color.

i have some paintbrushes downstairs. they are wood and some kind of fiber, inexpensive brushes i purchased when i was painting the canvas for the hall and the canvases for the living room. i actually didn’t use them. instead, i used a couple of housepaint brushes and, in alignment with that, house paint. latex. in cans. there was nothing about my painting that would be called “fine” – it was big strokes, big spattering, big expression. big brushes to big canvas. i saved the wooden brushes and, even now, haven’t yet used them, though recently bought a few small 8×8 inch canvas boards. i’m not sure why yet.

on the other hand, david cherishes his paintbrushes and knows exactly why to use each of them. his careful hand applying just the right amount of paint, brush to canvas, shaping the narrative of the painting. he recently bought a big roll of canvas. cutting off a five foot square, he painted a replica of a previous painting he had done, a piece that someone wanted but that he had painted for me. it was an amazing process to witness, as he brought the same energy, the same freedom of movement, the same emotion to this emerging painting. and suddenly, a month of hours-each-day later, it was complete. unfettered II had a destination and we shipped it off, like a short-term child he carefully tended and then let go.

one of our youtube addictions is to a channel of a man named martijn doolaard, a dutchman who is restoring two stone buildings in the italian alps. slowly, deliberately, patiently – with no expectation, no judgement, no apparent worry – martijn painstakingly goes about this restoration, working from sun-up to sundown, cooking himself dinners that look as beautiful as his vista and relaxing by editing hours of video or by painting. his brushes and his oils are precise. with brush to canvas, he paints landscapes of his surroundings, the environment of peace he has created, his studio the mountainside and sky.

i wonder who will pluck these thistlebrushes. i wonder what medium they will use to paint, upon what canvas they will work. what strokes will be applied to the prickly leaves, the blossoming flowers, the unrealized buds, the underbrush dying from eradication? what colors will be mixed to mimic the rising sun, the blur of a hawk on the wing, the flat bill of the white crane, the camouflage shell of the turtle?

nature has already brought its best in this meadow, in this forest, its brushes to canvas. it has brought its best at the line of surf of the ocean, upon the summit of high mountains, in the deepest of canyonlands, in the setting sun on red rock. it has brought its best in the faces of those we love, those who love us. it has brought its best in the perfection of creatures – domestic and wild.

it is intrinsic upon us to notice.

*****

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a very very very fine house. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

“our house…is a very very very fine house…” i can hear crosby, stills, nash and young gently singing this sweet domestic-bliss song in my ear. it makes me smile and nod my head.

everyone has their bliss. some need gigantic homes with every upgrade. some need rv’s that give freedom to roam. some need high-floor-city-dwelling. some need acreage in the middle of nowhere.

the things we need change.

we are finding that we need less and less. nothing fancy, nothing real shiny, nothing ostentatious, our house is simply an old house. it was built in 1928 and has all the trimmings of a sturdy old home – thick crown moldings and wainscoting panels, solid six panels and windowed french doors, creaking wood floors, glass doorknobs, high ceilings, double-hung roped windows. it also has all the quirks.

and we love it all.

now, don’t get me wrong, these last few days i would have been a very happy girl to have had central air conditioning. other days, i’ve pined for an island in our kitchen or maybe a master suite or a connected two-car garage. but…it’s not so and we don’t get all hung up on that stuff.

instead, we just love our house. and we feel like it knows it. because we can feel it loving us back.

yes. our house…is a very very very fine house.

*****

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our dividends. [k.s. friday]

we did not birth a baby together. until all these bunnies. our new-parent-juju is rising. together, we watch over them, noticing how they are growing, changing, their different puff-ball tails, their different markings. truth be told, we are not sure how many bunnies we actually have. we suspect that the number is rapidly increasing – as different sizes are showing up – all in the same day. so we are likely parenting multiples – twins, triplets and beyond.

my sweet momma used to tell me that when she discovered she was expecting – a decade after having my sister and brother – she wanted to have twins. she wanted me to be twins. she didn’t get all regretful or anything, but she just wanted me to know that she wanted me to have a sibling close to my age.

i wasn’t a twin. and my sister and brother grew, lightyears ahead of me, leaving home and marrying while i was just reaching double-digits. i, ever the little-sister, had special relationships with both of them and treasured time and sleepovers at their homes. but i can see the wisdom of my mom’s wish for twins. she called me their “dividend”.

and so i grew up – post-just-turning-double-digits – with older parents. they were already in their mid-fifties when i was a mid-teenager. and they were from a generation a little bit more old-fashioned. so, i s’pose i was a little bit more old-fashioned too.

they were already at the stage where suddenly they had a little bit more time to pay attention to the birds, the animals around our growing-up house, their garden. while i always appreciated their zeal, i didn’t stop in the zooming-around of a teenager to partake in much bird or wildlife watching or spend a lot of time in the gardens. after they moved to florida, in their last home together, they would sit for hours gazing out at the lake behind their home, watching for waterfowl, tiny lizards and traces of lurking alligators. witnesses of nature. it always brought them peace.

and now i get it.

last night we sat on the deck as the sun began to fall behind the horizon. the night air was cooler and the birds, chippies, squirrels, bunnies were busy. we marveled at the hummingbird flitting in to the feeder and we laughed at the antics of a gleeful dogdog, who was outsmarted every time by whichever bunbun was in the yard. we both sighed. the day was coming to an end and our yard-family was getting ready to tuck in.

the joys of dividends are numerous we see. old-fashioned goodness.

my sweet momma and my poppo – over in the next dimension – smiled knowing smiles and clapped their hands as they watched me, as they watched us.

*****

and goodnight ©️ 2005 kerri sherwood

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growth spurt. [d.r. thursday]

breck is having a growth spurt. like when your toddler suddenly grows inches and miles and you cast aside the tiny outfits, reaching for the next sizes up.

you don’t really know what to expect about how a child will look when a baby is born. every day – in the middle of the chaos that is parenthood – you look at this precious child, pretty much incredulous. there are days when nothing about their tiny face and body looks much different. there are days when you have an inkling of what this little person will look like as they grow. there are days you stare and wonder whose child you are holding.

breck is kind of like that. for years since we brought breck home from – yes, breckenridge, colorado – it has looked like a small quaking aspen sapling. potted and then in the ground in numerous places in the backyard, its leaves were small, easily-identifiable aspen leaves, the classic well-loved shape of mountain breezes and stands of shimmering, rustling.

and then, this summer.

breck is now – apparently – an awkward teenager. the new leaves are giant, the new growth resembles the beanstalk that jack planted. it is as high as the lowest point of the garage roof and each day there are new leaves up there, new inches. we are not quite sure what is happening out there. but it sure looks like breck is having the time of its life.

breck’s vigorous growth this very summer seems really hopeful to us. in these past five summers we have watched breck maintain, keep status quo, a little teeny growth here or there. we’ve been grateful it has sustained. we feel inordinately connected to this little tree that made its way home from the high mountains with us in littlebabyscion.

we wonder about its sudden enthusiasm. we wonder about its new and different leaves. it feels like it is somehow bursting out of slow-and-steady into what-the-heck-full-steam-ahead.

we’re hoping it’s contagious.

*****

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dazzled. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

“still, what i want in my life
is to be willing
to be dazzled—
to cast aside the weight of facts

and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.
i want to believe I am looking

into the white fire of a great mystery.
i want to believe that the imperfections are nothing—
that the light is everything—that it is more than the sum
of each flawed blossom rising and falling. and i do.”
(mary oliver – house of light)

truth be told, i am pretty easily dazzled.

diamonds on the lake, owl feathers on the trail, first fireflies, an unsolicited kiss from dogdog, the rising moon, constellations pinpricking the sky, tightly-wound buds, wide-open-blossom fragrance. catching my beloved’s eye, the gesture of hand to his heart, the ninth in harmony, the sinking sun through a forest of trees, birds gathering at 4am, sunrise, surprise texts from my grown children, squishy pillows, the first coffee, a bold red, a new thermal shirt, snowfall, the first glimpse of the mountains.

as everything changes – my body, my work, my impact, my voice – it is easier to float above the difficult when dazzled a dazzling number of times a day.

i don’t know who to credit with my easy-dazzability. i suspect it’s my sweet momma. she did not have a high bar for ecstatic. she cheered on the tiniest event, she buoyed even those she did not know. her gaze took it all in…it became fodder for extraordinary within the ordinary.

but, oh, the practice of being astounded, of having your breath taken away, of being startled by that which you’ve seen many times, of holding the horizon loosely like the reins of a horse – without restraint, your knees signaling “gallop”. full-fledged immersion in possibility, unabashed glee, awed.

when the lake glitters, it feels as if the day itself has reason to shimmer.

i realize now – already – and at long last – the shimmer – of light – is always there. no matter.

*****

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from the perspective of a fly. [merely-a-thought monday]

in the column under the word “detest” i would place mosquitoes.

anything that can be minutely tiny and, really, barely visible, but can instantly wreak havoc on any summer evening or afternoon hike or, geesh, morning coffee, really has no right to be on the “well-loved” list.

that incessant buzzing you hear – in the bedroom – when you are trying to go to sleep…you just know it’s headed for you, it’s looking for you, it will bite you. mosquitoes own big stock in sleeping aid companies, i’m quite sure. they are just – in the voice of my former mother-in-law (who i can still hear in my mind saying this) “MIZZZerable!”.

wisconsin is among the states that has informally declared the mosquito as the state bird. it’s an effort to be humored by these pests, to take them in stride, to share space with them. yuck.

i picked a slip out of the jokes and riddles bowl, sweet mementos of cherished helen. “mosquito – an insect that makes you like flies better.” considering what i know about flies – all the disgusting stuff – in general one would be hard-pressed to like flies better than anything. but – relative to mosquitoes? i guess they aren’t as pathetically-unloved. unless they are the horse flies of the beach or those black flies in new england or midges or biting gnats or the dreaded no-see-ums. none of these deserve much adoration and one has to wonder what their true purpose might be. i know, i know. the whole food source/pollinator/composter thing. (i can hear elton john singing the circle of life now.)

i’d have to agree with this slip of paper. mosquitoes make me like many things i detest – more. and, despite the bats that fly in the summer dusk sky above our ‘hood here near the lake, i still wonder about their self-esteem and self-actualization. i’d be happier to support their life goals if i wasn’t one of them.

mostly, this slip of paper from this tiny-but-powerful 95-year-old is a good reminder about one’s perspective in life, one’s point of view. i’m betting the flies appreciate it.

*****

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the chicken-line. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

we don’t always get a rotisserie chicken. we are eating waaay less meat and waaay more vegetables, often choosing a meatless dinner or a plant-based alternative. costco, however, does make serious down-to-the-wire-budgeting a little less painful with a $4.99 rotisserie chicken that we can literally turn into three evenings of dinners.

the other day, we pulled up to the chicken-line, jostling our way past other shoppers who were vacillating “chicken-no chicken-chicken-no chicken”. there was a young woman with half-a-cartful eyeing the chicken-line, not in and not out.

i asked her, “are you in the chicken-line?” she responded, tentatively, “i think so.” she had a little bit of a lost look on her face so i asked her, “is this your first time in the chicken-line?” to which she responded with an emphatic “yes!”. i told her that it really is quite the experience, almost cult-like – to which she looked uncomfortable. i hastened to add that there are many chicken-line things to ponder – ie: the way the clocks on the ovens work – giving you false hope that it’s almost T-I-M-E and then realizing it has numerous cycles and countdowns. i didn’t tell her how much i think about the chickens. i didn’t mention the guilt. i welcomed her to the chicken-line, parallel parking our cart behind hers. then we waited. quietly.

the costco chicken-people extracted the roasts from the oven and – incredibly deftly – containerized them for the chicken-warming-station-counter. we moved forward.

the young woman was waiting by the packaged quinoa salads, straight ahead, about ten feet further down. as we passed, she looked at us, catching our eye, smiled and said, “thank you for sharing that experience with me.”

we were touched.

forever chicken-line friends.

*****

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