reverse threading

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

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December 24, 2025
by kerrisherwood11 1 Comment

now more than ever. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

it’s a week ahead of christmas as i write this.

in earlier years – for decades – i would have been consumed with shaping advent and christmas services, designing music that lifts the story of this holiday, that spreads the message of love, of light, of the season.

it’s been a bunch of years now that I haven’t been a minister of music and i trust that each church i’ve served before will again have ringing of handbells, choirs in harmony, cantatas with wonderful narrative, pipe organ music reflective of this time of light…perhaps even a ukulele band strumming some favorite carols. i hope that the music programs i started in churches in new york, florida, wisconsin all have grown and that they carry on in the same spirit of joy i brought. it is different to not direct, but the space allows for introspection and reflection.

several years ago – as a piece for one of the cantatas i composed or arranged – i wrote the song “you’re here”. as i listen to my own song – recorded as i sang it at a piano into my phone – these lyrics: and now, you’re here, in a world of hypocrisy and your love can heal us all…”

and it occurs to me that we are all mary – holding space for love, for light, for hope. even outside a tradition that celebrates christmas or hanukkah or any other specifically religious holiday – it is love – period – that can heal us. OUR love. love for one another, love for equality, love for goodwill, love for kindness. it is holding up compassion, concern, tenderness, empathy. it is recognizing brokenness and despair. it is valuing humanity itself and leading with heart and generosity.

in this season, i have found myself humming another of my own personal favorites: hope was born this night.

i hope so.

in each of us.

we need it now more than ever.

merry christmas.

alleluia.

*****

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December 19, 2025
by kerrisherwood11 1 Comment

galaxy-size snowflakes. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

“you keep worrying you’re taking up too much space. i wish you’d let yourself be the milky way.” (andrea gibson)

i don’t believe that snowflakes worry as they fall from the sky. i don’t believe that they have any concern for whether they will fit or whether they will fit in.i don’t believe that they are self-conscious or self-doubting or – even – self-aware. they just are.

they form, they float, they land where they may. and then, they just are.

it is clear to me that we do not occupy such a singularly thin space of reality or consciousness. but were we to, it would simplify matters. we would form and float and land and be.

and perhaps that would mean that we would each bring all of us to the space into which we landed. we wouldn’t bring limited or limiting notions of mattering. we wouldn’t bring devices or attitudes measuring importance or gauging hierarchal places of belonging. we wouldn’t bring open hatred or cruelty. we would just land…into a community of other snowflakes, gathered and scattered, all beautiful, and unique.

maybe it would mean that no one of us would feel compelled to rule the space, to take over the place where the snowflakes gathered. maybe it would mean that no one of us would feel like they were more a snowflake than the next snowflake. maybe it would mean that each of us would feel that we count. maybe it would mean that each of us would feel like we are important – galaxy-size-important – even in the middle of all the other snowflakes. each one of us. maybe that kind of valuing could save the world.

every snowflake. they accumulated on the adirondack chairs we left outside in the just-in-case there might be another warm enough day to sit outside or to be by the firepit. i didn’t brush them off. there was something compelling about seeing them – this tiny community of snowflakes – something that drove me to study it, really look at how they scattered onto the surface.

it would seem that – indeed – these snowflakes let themselves fly. unconcerned, undeterred by anything else, i imagine they each – in all their glory – made like they were as big as the milky way and – in all their grand single-snowflake-power – floated and twirled their way down to the very important space that would be theirs. and no one stopped them.

and then, there they were.

tiny individual flakes. taking up all the space.

and they stayed there. waiting for the next snowfall – when they would hear the laughter and joy of the next batch of flakes as they fell, glistening and swirling like diamonds from clouds.

perhaps we are too noisy to hear such glee, to believe in such magic.

*****

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December 12, 2025
by kerrisherwood11 1 Comment

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

“know then that the body is merely a garment. go seek the wearer, not the cloak.” (rumi)

and the babycat chair – cloaked in snow – shielded all from the view of its real soul. its new trapping hides its decrepit wickered weave. one would not know not to sit – certainly not to sit back – with snow covering this seat, this chairback. the babycat chair’s garment of white belies what is truly there.

and yet, this chair – the other day – seated a squirrel or two. as i watched out the window, they took turns sitting, munching on something i could not identify, comfortable squatting on this handy seat.

i – like you – have known plenty of people who have cloaked themselves in all the trends, who have kept up in fashion, who dress for the time and continually refresh their wardrobe. indeed, they look fabulous and, like just wearing the right couture, their vehicles and homes and sundries are all cloaked in that same shiny wrap. with some, it might be hard to gauge what is truly inside, what soul is silent, what soul is loud. we may not know but we are entranced by the packaging, the masking, the shell – that which is superficial, evanescent, transient.

the spirit of the babycat chair carries on, with or without snow. its aging – like the aging of barney-the-old-piano in our backyard – lifts up the unchanging truth that aging is not negotiable.

we – inside our cloaks – whatever they might be – transcend the broken wicker of what we put on to cover who we are. like the babycat chair – but exponentially – the spirit of what we mean, what we have meant, remains.

what do we each choose that to be, individually, in community, in this world?

*****

December 5, 2025
by kerrisherwood11 Leave a comment

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

from our perch in the sunroom we can watch it snowing. surrounded by glass, we have a good windowseat to the weather as it changes. it looked really beautiful ‘out there’ we agreed, also agreeing to throw on some warm jackets and boots and go ‘out there’ for a walk a bit later, as the snow accumulated.

we lasted sixteen minutes.

the wind was whipping off the lake and the snow was stinging our faces. brutal. it was not fun and it was definitely not comfortable. we pretended to be in the sierras on the pct, trudging our way to camp, to pitch our tent in the snow and rest. sheesh. just the thought of that made us consider a flipflop instead of a thru-hike. same miles, same terrain, different seasons.

“my comfort zone is like a little bubble around me, and i’ve pushed it in different directions and made it bigger and bigger until these objectives that seemed totally crazy eventually fall within the realm of the possible.” (alex honnold)

we both really respect alex honnold. he is an incredible athlete with downright top-of-the-heap courage. he constantly pushes himself, way, way past comfortable, every time expanding where his boundaries of comfort are.

in these years we have found that pushing the boundaries of comfort are necessary. we have found that immense amounts of courage are necessary. we have found that poking that safety membrane around us – as if inside a big luminescent bubble – is necessary. poking from the inside out, not the outside in. no bubble-bursting here.

we’ve made big steps in that poking.

it’s not like we haven’t poked-the-bubble before in our lives, individually or together, as artists, as humans. but – and i’m betting this is a common truth – poking-the-bubble is harder the older you get. and so, as we step out of our c-zones and into things more unknown, hard things, complicated things, scary things, we have a tad more trepidation, a bit of reticence, some good old-fashioned fear. we keep on.

so we are not intrepid snowwalkers, we see today.

no worries. there are workarounds. (not to mention a mostly-warm sunroom where we can sit at a bistro table and watch out the window.)

besides, our pokes are saved for other bubbles.

“the one thing you learn is when you can step out of your comfort zone and be uncomfortable, you see what you’re made of and who you are.” (sue bird)

*****

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

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December 1, 2025
by kerrisherwood11 1 Comment

harvest the love. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

in a very, very long-ago life i wrote a song for a youth choir called “harvest the love“. i recently found the arrangement i composed. it is a bubblegum kind of song – full of rhyming idealism. “…we are all one fam’ly under the sun, we are brothers, we are sisters, we are one...”. wowza.

one of my closest friends in high school – marc – used to make fun of me (in the kindest way possible). he’d poke at my embrace of rainbows and sunrises and bubbles and sunsets. i was all-in on that stuff, believing it was absolutely possible to be “all one fam’ly under the sun”. “…for aren’t we really crops in the sun and aren’t we ready for work and for fun, as all one fam’ly under the sun…”. (it’s ok to laugh.)

we had a quiet thanksgiving. it felt good to store away the deck furniture and rugs, to complete prepping the backyard for winter – for (as i write this) we’re due for 6-10 inches of snow over the weekend (which, incidentally, we did get about 10). we wrapped happy lights around the giant tree branch that used to be in our living room, now fastened to our deck. on a timer, we look forward to this tree greeting us as we arrive home in the dark. we neatly tucked everything else away and the snow shovel is in its at-the-ready place by the back door.

we had the good fortune of visiting frank over the holidays. in a rehab facility, exhausted and challenged from a serious health event, he roused to tell us stories accumulated over the nine plus decades of his life. he – most definitely – lived a life ready for both work and for fun, just like my giddy song lyrics.

and then – back home – between sending out thanksgiving greetings and receiving them – we prepared a big stockpot of irish stew for our meal. with george winston playing in the sunroom, we chopped and sautéed and, ultimately, simmered our way to dinner. it was just us, but as we gathered, we talked about the people in our lives who have meant so much to us, about memories of thanksgivings, about our gratitude for our home and each other. two weeks ago our children and their partners gathered around our dining room table and i am still holding fast to how it all felt that day, stretching it out like good taffy.

most of the lyrics of this old song are really indicative of my age (late teens) and where i had come from – you can tell i spent a lot of time sitting in my tree outside my window writing poetry. “…isn’t it time now to harvest the love in your roots and splash in the puddles around you. from dawn of the day and its dew, we bask in the sunshine surrounds us...” yikes.

then there’s: “…dig our holes in fertile soil of living and hope that it will yield us as giving...” that would seem an innocently metaphoric way – full of autumnal reference – of saying we reap what we sow. and…i still agree with that.

and then, after the song – predictably – in late 70s fashion – modulates up a full step to a new key, it ends: “harvest the love within your heart, harvest the love. harvest the love within your heart, harvest the love…(with repeat signs)...”

which is – really – i think – still what i believe. love. harvest the LOVE. gather with those you love. LOVE one another. we ARE all one fam’ly under the sun. we ARE brothers, we ARE sisters.

now if only we could all act like it.

*****

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November 28, 2025
by kerrisherwood11 1 Comment

patina. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

i just can’t keep everything. and right now, i’ve been more valiant about going-through-giving-away-selling-getting-rid-of.

and so, despite the really beautiful wood handle on this vintage cast iron meat grinder – passed down to me by my mom and dad – a manual kitchen gadget – a peck, stow & wilcox – from the late 1800s or early 1900s – i have decided to move it on.

we aren’t big meat eaters and we are definitely not meat grinders. as a matter of fact, i am hard-pressed to remember my mom grinding meat. and, as antiques go, our old kitchen isn’t big enough to add the meat grinder as a displayed collectible, even with its patina of worn-smooth wood, the curve of its handle, the working vice clamp – really, the whole curiosity factor. no, it is time to let it go.

in our economic blackout protest, we won’t be shopping today – or the next few days – and we didn’t the last few days – anywhere but smaller retail. over this weekend we may go to our favorite antique shoppe or we may stay in, continuing the big-clearing-out, maybe hiking as a respite from the going-through.

every now and then, as i touch something that’s been packed away, i pause for a few minutes. in the flash of memories that flies through my heart in those minutes, i do my best to detach from the item and simply attach to the feeling. some things are easy – the meat grinder is sort of one of those, despite its collectible value. some things are a bit more difficult or downright hard – an old felt hat of my dad’s, a mid-century modern black and blue ceramic ashtray i remember from forever, a cypress clock, my momma’s wedding dress, hobnail milk glass pieces – these all run wide that spectrum. my tinier-than-i-remembered horse collection, multiple plastic seagulls on wire stuck into driftwood, the metal yellow and white smile face wastebasket, an old bread box – these are also mixed and the ruthless-matter-of-fact-er in me takes a backseat to the flood of memories. but boxed is boxed and i am wondering what the point is if something that could be used by someone is simply boxed or binned away in the storage room in the basement, never to be appreciated, never to be purposed.

the hands that held this grinder handle, that cranked this, that churned out sausage or whatever it is the grinder is capable of, were hands related to mine. holding this handle is holding time-passed-by. it is holding people passed. and so i do a photo shoot of this cast iron piece, clamping it onto our kitchen table, appreciating its age, its handprints, its history – though i don’t specifically know it.

and someone will eventually purchase this – or we will give it away – and they will also wonder about where it came from, whose it was, how it was used and when. they won’t know, but they will have honored it nonetheless, just by taking it home.

and the meat grinder will start its next phase – maybe displayed – maybe put into use. and the story will continue – about a hundred years of story.

and we will stand firm in our blackout of the kind of purchasing that enables the most privileged wealthy, the oligarchs. we will stand firm in our pushback of the economic inequality, the DEI rollbacks, the administration’s corruption and bow to special interests, to bigotry. we’ll do the best we can.

as always we will scale back, be frugal, lighten the load we have, repurpose, minimalize our needs, support others who have less, hold onto what is truly valuable – memories, feelings, connections….the heart of it all.

because a hundred years from now – from the time of this very story – i would hope the patina of that future time would show the well-worn bruises and scars and hard work of the people who pushed back, the people who – successfully – held onto democracy.

*****

November 21, 2025
by kerrisherwood11 Leave a comment

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every falling leaf. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

in my son’s first year at lawrence university, i had the joy of visiting the campus fairly often. one of those times there was a comedian on campus and, along with a group of his friends, i went to her show.

it was fall 2011. tig notaro was about 40 then – though she looked way younger. i was 52 or so, not a heck of a lot older. following her bright career for a bit, it was difficult to see her deal with complicated and dangerous medical issues, the abrupt death of her mother, breast cancer, a double mastectomy, relationship breakup.

hundreds – maybe thousands – of shows in the growth of her success later, we watched her on anderson cooper’s – stunning – grief podcast “all there is”.

we stumbled upon this just a few nights ago – after you-tube-ing the news until we could no longer take any more in. anderson was visiting with ken burns and the show was titled, “the half-life of grief is endless“. there is nothing like an honest, open conversation about mortality and loss to draw you in. i repeated the words aloud: “the half-life of grief is endless” before realizing that quote had been – aptly – chosen as the title of that episode.

it feels true – in my opinion. the half-life of grief IS endless. and in that space we inhabit – that space that loss always shields with an impermeable membrane – we find so much meaning, so much life, so much right-now.

though well-acquainted with loss of dear people around her, tig spoke specifically of the loss of her friend, poet andrea gibson. she described the feeling of andrea nearby her. she read bits of her poetry. anderson cried. i cried. i think d cried too.

i never could understand how – when my big brother died – the world could just go on. i wasn’t a child. i was 33 and pregnant with my second child. but i still couldn’t grok it, even as i had lost others in my life, even as I could cognitively understand it. it was a gut-punch, yet i could feel him – wayne – nearby. i could sense his humor, his brilliant mind.

in the love letter that andrea wrote to their fiancée, they wrote “dying is the opposite of leaving…” and in the same, their words, “ask me the altitude of heaven and i will answer ‘how tall are you?'”

i cannot hike in the woods without stopping. there is so much to take in, so much for which to gently hold space, so much to be grateful for. just to see it all…washes over all the grief and enlivens all the grief. both.

and then there is this: “every falling leaf is a tiny kite with a string too small to see, held by the part of me in charge of making beauty out of grief.” (andrea gibson)

*****