reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: centered


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delicious. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

there was something about how these speckled leaves were nestled that got my attention.

and, in the way that everything makes me think of something else, it also brought to mind the nursery song five little speckled frogs:

“five green and speckled frogs
sitting on a speckled log
eating the most delicious bugs, yum, yum

one jumped into the pool
where it was nice and cool
now there are just four speckled frogs, glub, glub…”

but i digress.

maybe it was the symmetry of the trees. maybe it was the orange and green (which were the exact shades of my growing-up shag rug and the wall-to-wall carpet in our sunroom when we moved in.) maybe it was simply the happenstance of that particular branch of leaves, caught in the little crook made by two trees growing closely together, perhaps inosculated.

whatever the reason, i found it to be a thing of beauty. and those things are out there, everywhere, calling to us – to notice.

i didn’t disturb the leaves. just like i didn’t disturb the blue jay feather i passed on the trail. i left them there – like so many other times – so that others could see them as well.

on the contrary, there have been many snakes on the trail in these last hikes. garter snakes and brown snakes of all sizes – even the tiniest snake i’ve ever seen – sunning on these gorgeous autumn days. but the problem in that is that there are bikers who are populating this trail as well and there have been numerous times we have come across a snake that is deceased or struggling, having been run over by a biker who did not see it.

so, each and every time we see a snake – in the middle of the trail – we stop. we either prompt it to move, escorting it to the side of the trail to which it was headed or, in the case of the struggling or fatally wounded, we pick them up and place them gently in the grass, issuing a tiny blessing and saying, “you are not alone.” we know some of them are in their last moments and, in the way that this universe is all connected, we hope that our holding them for a moment helps them in crossing over.

we immerse in what the trail offers – everything – from helping the tiniest fuzzy caterpillar to taking in a sunset of grandeur. we are grateful for the deep breath it consistently brings to us. we get centered in the step-by-step repetition.

i suppose these are the reasons we find ourselves pondering – imagining – a giant thru-hike in the someday. the opportunity to hold such beauty and be held by such beauty – all around us – is enticing and, surely, delicious.

just like bugs to speckled frogs.

*****

YOU HOLD ME from THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY ©️ 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood

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this side of the corn. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

fall is coming on. there is no denying it. everything is starting to wane.

the sky is starting to gray. the corn will be soon plowed under and, one of these days, the cabbage fields will have to turn over, the yield from their crop slowed to a stop. the colors are changing.

george winston recorded an album called autumn. you listen inside his wistfulness as he toys with the emotions of the changing. the album was released in 1980 and, for me, that was a distinct time of heading into fallow.

some fallows last longer than the seasons and the tilted axis of the earth seems to evade warming sunlight. the seeds gather strength in the ground – centered in us, even without us nourishing them. and eventually, ever-so-slowly sometimes, the earth tilts back toward the sun and the orbital horizon is rebirth, spring.

it seems to happen fast – the waning. the ebb and flow of the cold. there is nothing as constant as change and, so, we need remember that in times of fallow. the tide – like the corn and the cabbage – will come and go, come and go. an ancient story.

we join hands with others on our path – they are quite possibly on the same ebb and quite possibly will be in the flow with us as well. they stand with us, they encourage us, they surprise us. the shapes of others appear – like revelations – from out of the mist of our fixed frame of reference. everything looks different.

standing on this side of the corn, gazing into the grayness of sky, the dance of color as it fades, i am finding – with much gratitude – that there are others standing right there with me, gazing as well. the wistful tugs at us; gravitational effect far from the sun but with promise of the pull. we stand still, roots under our feet, steadfastly hand-holding, looking at the horizon as it shifts.

and time passes and the seasons flow and flow and, eventually, the axis finally – at long last – tilts and the fallow ends and the seeds that were planted so long ago break through the frozen ground and we know that we have – together – affected even the tiniest change.

and winter comes as we stoke up, readying ourselves for the riches of spring.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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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.

*****

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in the great pause. [k.s. friday]

in the great pause we are experiencing, things have risen to the top.

they are the cardinals on the fence, the house finch sipping from the dogdish, the hummingbird at the feeder, dogga sleeping on the deck, the smell of sauteing onions and garlic, ice water in a glass, the sun rising out the sunroom window, the play of first light on our quilt, the sound of the trail under our feet, the mayapple flowers tucked in and peeking out from the canopy, the piney scent through the stand, the repeating arvo pärt on the cd player, photographs, the gurgling pond out back, bunbun and the chippies, glass doorknobs, the basil plant on the potting stand, the first coffee, a hot shower, lavender soap, open windows, butterflies, five-year-aged cheddar and sips of wine, writing next to each other, repeated ritual touchstones in our week, unrushed hugs, the squirrel highway, the sound of a text on the phone, anticipation, generosities, idiosyncrasies, the peonies, sunny days of little humidity, the feel of old wood floors under bare feet, hagstones, smooth worry rocks tucked in our pockets.

and with these things of absolute greatness, we slow down and – in the way of centripetal forces spinning, spinning, around, around – we center. and wait.

“this is the time to be slow,

lie low to the wall

until the bitter weather passes.

try, as best you can, not to let

the wire brush of doubt

scrape from your heart

all sense of yourself

and your hesitant light.

if you remain generous,

time will come good;

and you will find your feet

again on fresh pastures of promise

where the air will be kind

and blushed with beginning.”

(john o’donohue – to bless the space between us)

*****

taking stock ©️ 2010 kerri sherwood

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lessons from the tree on highway h. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

we go back and go back and go back.

we have adopted this tree and should we ever drive there and find it is gone we will likely be pretty devastated.

we have a relationship with this tree in this farmfield on this road. we never tire of it. somehow it keeps us centered.

this beautiful tree stands there – as weather systems spin around it and time travels on and on, we see the stalwart and steady tree – withstanding it all. it is not ON the mountain in the raging wind, the swirling snowstorm, the beating rain, the ice and drought and cold and heat and night and day and fog – it IS the mountain.

lessons on highway h.

“be the mountain,” the tree calls to us, “be the mountain.”

and before we drive off, “just like me, like me, like me,” it adds, echoing into the wind.

*****

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SMACK-DAB. ©️ 2023 kerrianddavid.com


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in KC’s family. [two artists tuesday]

just past the eyelash phase, in a tightly woven and protected calyx of green sepals (leaves), the gardenia bonsai flower waits. a little research reveals that it will take about two months of growing to reach the point of a cracked bud, hopefully flowering after. KC is reportedly “one of the most loved and challenging plants in the bonsai world” and i hope that i am up to the task. these beautiful and somewhat-difficult-to-grow plants offer “a unique opportunity for anyone who wishes to take the time to attend to their needs.” they are particular about sunlight, particular about direction of window exposure, particular about temperature, particular about humidity, particular about watering, particular about feeding with fertilizer, particular about shape and pruning, particular about training, particular about insects and mold, particular about repotting, particular about touch. they do well without any negative stressful environmental factors. it occurs to me that perhaps i am in the bonsai gardenia family.

KC sits together with some other lower-maintenance plants (read: succulents you can’t really mess up) and is clearly different than them. its leaves are rich in color, two whorls protecting promising buds, and its presence demands to be noticed. i talk to it every day, encouraging it, paying attention, hoping i am tending to it properly. i truly cherish this little bonsai; my beloved daughter and her boyfriend sent it to me for my birthday and it was a joyous and glittering moment to receive such a beautiful gift. i want to do my best helping this little gardenia along. and, in light of the last year, the last couple years, i can understand and relate to its eccentricities. mmm, can’t we all?

in the evening KC is bathed in the sparkle of the sunroom’s happy lights. proudly in the spot it has claimed on the table, it sits, basking. it is one of the sparkles of the year. there have been many, despite the difficulties, within the difficulties, despite the challenges, within the challenges, despite these times, within these times. if it were possible, i would set each around us in the sunroom, also bathed in happy lights, like laundry clothespinned to a clothesline, reminding us of the best times, the memorable times, the happiest snapshots, the most poignant moments, the yin-yang of relationships, reassuring love in trying-to-stay-centered, the times we balanced stress and the times we succumbed to it, successful and unsuccessful zen, and exhausted times of rest.

i would place the clothesline in the middle of the room so that you could not help but see each item, each old wooden clothespin, memory-laundry crowded onto a timeline, reminding us that the minute does not stay. that whether the minute is feverish or beauty-laden, it moves on.

we are all particular; we are all particularly needy. our lists and our baggage surpass that of the little bonsai gardenia. we are all up to the task. we do our best in each moment, whether it is dark or sparkling. and we remember we can try again. we can help each other; we are “most loved and challenging”. KC already knows that.

i am excited to see KC bloom. i wait patiently for this amazing flower to arrive. in the meantime, i light the white gardenia candle, talk to my plant and drink in the glow of the happy lights, trying. each day. living just past the eyelash phase.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY