reverse threading

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Tag Archives: david robinson paintings


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an upside. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

i scoured the streets of san francisco looking for it. i had somehow lost the peace pendant my daughter gifted me – it fell off from around my neck and, as we moseyed away from the san fran moma and shopped, i suddenly realized it was gone. i immediately backtracked my steps, even knowing it was not likely i would find it. we all walked with our eyes peeled to the city streets.

as i stepped up onto a curb while crossing a busy street, i saw it. there, in the gutter of the road, lay the pewter peace sign and its chain. i felt a surge of relief finding it, for I truly do treasure the gifts my children have given me and, of course, you know how thready i am.

years ago, the kiddos made a shopping trip to target. together they picked out a tall bamboo vessel with golden and deep red-dyed dried reeds and gave it to me – a gift. it has – since then – continued to have a place in our home. now it stands in the bedroom, between the red and white gingham-checked recliner wing-chair and the jewelry armoire i purchased on marketplace, right in front of the window. in the morning, the sun streams in and sets the reeds aglow. and i think of my beloved children every single time.

i suppose i could be less thready, a tad bit less sentimental. it’s not likely, though.

i could take you on a walk through our house and yard. the stories would not be about the value of objects we have displayed or the name-brand of things we own. the stories would be narratives, tales of experiences we’ve had, of times with others, of things we’ve been gifted, of workarounds, of love delivered in a plant, a candle, a wine holder, hearts, peace signs, a rag-rugged love sculpture, a quilt, of history in a branch, an old table, a window frame, vintage suitcases.

when littlebabyscion had trouble last week – and we had a conversation – me and littlebabyscion – i asked it to hang around longer. and i fully expected it to listen, because i have basically personified that little vehicle since i purchased it. friends from all over wrote to ask how littlebabyscion was, because, well, they know. yeah, less thready is not likely.

this morning was intensely beautiful. with the sun starting to pour in the open windows and all the fans off for the moment – so no white noise – we could hear the birds, the gurgling pond, the airplane flying above. we sipped coffee and dogdog laid on the foot of the bed. there was nothing you could have done to have made it any better. feet tucked under the blankets – for it was still a little cool in the early morning – we were silent.

i memorized it and tucked it away.

that way, another day – when it’s cloudy outside or inside – i could pull it all back and remember, i could let that moment wrap around me once again.

thready has an upside.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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golden light rising. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

the glow of the setting sun teased through the grasses out front. autumn is rising.

my old hiking boots are waiting by the back door. soon – and very soon – it will be time to change out of our hiking sandals and back to these boots, worn from many, many miles of trails. we need to replace them. the podiatrist informed us we should purchase new ones every six months or so if we are wearing our boots regularly. since we are artists, this is not quite possible. and so, these circa 2016 boots have graced our feet for the last eight years of hikes. every bit of worn leather, every creak, has a story to tell. someday it will be a tad bit hard to retire them. they have served us well.

today is the first day of school here. i am completely out of sync with these touchstones of time. the trip to target – with school supplies galore – helped place me in time. but with grown children and no direct connection to the school system, we had to look up the district calendar.

a certain wistfulness comes on the breeze with the return of the fall sun. it happens every year. it’s hard to identify, but it is palpable.

i wonder if it is a kind of homesickness – for growing-up times back on long island and for my own days with a backpack – stuffed with textbooks, spirals and new pencils – slung over my shoulder.

i wonder if it is a kind of nostalgia – a yearning – for the times when my children were little, when they picked out new backpacks and pencil cases, gathered their wide-ruled notebooks and glue sticks, colored highlighters and crayons, those days when packing lunches and snacks and waiting for the bus were the defining times of the day.

i wonder if it is the bank of memories i carry – taking my children to college, unpacking into dorm rooms, apartments, toting stuff back and forth, my heart holding dearly to the threads of their childhood while, at the same time, supporting their gossamer winging wings, watching their contrails.

i wonder if it is a kind of longing – a pining for things undone to be done, for things not accomplished to be accomplished, for summer dreams to extend beyond the setting summer sun.

autumn rises and i feel invigorated. these are new times. there is new possibility. i have no idea what is coming but this rising autumnal sun is full of golden light.

golden. light. and my old boots are waiting by the back door.

“the sun shines not on us, but in us.” (john muir)

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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all creatures great and small. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

“all things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small. all things wise and wonderful, ’twas god that made them all.” (cecil francis alexander/edwin george monk/george mcbeth mcphee)

the striking thing about this song – a hymn in the united methodist hymnal i played from for many years as a minister of music – is the use of the word all.

whatever deity you may subscribe to, whatever you call a greater power, whatever your heart-faith attaches to, all things count, all creatures great and small.

i glanced up while at the sink washing a few dishes. and there, on the white trim next to the window, was this katydid. she didn’t seem to feel in peril – and she wasn’t. my first reaction was surprise. my second reaction was wondering how to safely remove her and place her out in the garden, where she might find leaves or flowers to munch, maybe drink from a fallen raindrop.

“each little flower that opens, each little bird that sings. he made their glowing colors and. made their tiny wings.”

it is not our first inclination to eliminate that which is different, that – because of size difference – which is helpless. we try – in most cases – to help the tiniest find its way. this katydid was lost in our house and likely would not have survived if we hadn’t found it and if we weren’t helping it along. it somehow feels like the same story as us – here in the universe. we are but tiny specks of dust, floating, floating, in a galaxy of stars and planets, lost and found, lost and found.

“the purple headed mountains, the rivers running by, the sunset and the morning that brightens up the sky.”

it is up to us to take notice, to care for – across our land, around our world – the extraordinarily large and the astonishingly tiny.

we are all here together.

and i hope that if someday we are lost, someone will gently pick us up and carry us to the garden so that we, too, might munch on flowers, drink raindrops and breathe fresh air available to all creatures great and small.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

prayer of opposites 48” x 48”

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for the little things and the big things. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

we drove home with the heat blasting and the windows open. all 263 miles.

we drove slower than usual – cruise control on – smiling at everyone who passed us as we toodled along in the right lane.

we stopped every hour.

each time, we raised the hood, set a timer, stretched our legs. we readied the old beach towel and the funnel, got out the big jug of coolant and waited till it was safe to open the radiator cap.

and littlebabyscion – with whom i had had a few conversations prior to getting on the road – hung in there.

each time we opened the radiator cap to reveal that the coolant level had not changed. the red coolant light – which had intermittently flashed at us numerous times on the way up north – causing great distress – never flashed at us on the the way home.

when we got off the interstate for the last eleven miles or so, i turned off the heat. and LBS dutifully and safely got us home. no flashing lights on the dashboard. no drop in the level of coolant in the radiator.

so it’s all a bit of a mystery – this curious and first-time problem – the flashing light, the seriously depleted coolant on our way up. i have a few theories and, frankly, i’m hoping they are correct, that our brilliant mechanic will concur. that would mean that nothing is really horribly wrong with LBS. and that would mean we can continue our journey together. 276,000 miles and beyond.

we – david and i – were seriously serious about staying in the calm-zone as we dealt with this car issue while on a little time away and, mostly, while driving home. though i, initially, was pretty upset about the potential problem that this could represent, my conversations with LBS were fervent and d and i were determined to stay in the zen-zone all the way home. taking the over-the-phone advice of our mechanic, knowing that our dear friends were not-too-far behind us and that 20 was waiting at home with dinner and ready to help in any way were all sources of infinite reassurance. that kind of support gives one confidence to keep going, to not immerse in worry, to just trust it all.

it’s been a long, long time since i have driven on an interstate with the windows wide open. it’s a noisy place. and yet, the kwik-trip, the fox river park, the giant truck stop all provided us with quieter places to stop, places to wait it out, places to be celebratory each time we opened LBS’ radiator cap and then packed it all back up and drove on for the next hour.

this was an in-the-lull lesson for us. any moments of upset were not helpful. instead, staying focused on the things we could do, the help we had been offered, the steadiness of this little xb – these all gave us the ability to stay in the moment and not lose the lull.

i’m not positive we would have passed the lull-test alone. we are infinitely grateful to have not felt alone. that is the power of community for each of us – this abundance of support. when we wouldn’t have normally asked for help, it was there anyway. we just need to remember it’s right there. for the little things and the big things.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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goodness makes people…[kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

for years i wore a yellow livestrong bracelet on my wrist. it was a small way of saying to the world that i – like millions of others – was part of wanting to raise awareness and generate support for cancer survivors.

i wore it through many years of performances at oncology and survivor events across the nation, through losing a dear friend to cancer, through scares i personally had. i’m pretty sure i had it on when heidi and i worked with lance armstrong and the tour of hope and i had it on the day my big brother had been gone fifteen years. i had it on when i recorded the bonus tracks i am alive and you make a difference for my as sure as the sun album. somewhere along the way, i stopped wearing one but i saved the last one i wore. my support did not stop.

these bracelets raised over $100 million and, with that, the livestrong foundation “unites, inspires and empowers people affected by cancer. [the foundation] provides free cancer support services to anyone facing cancer today.” the current president and ceo of livestrong has said that there are still sales of over 30,000 bracelets a year, so it is clear that this simple rubber bracelet – launched in 2004 – has been a long-term icon of cancer support.

i’d venture to say: goodness makes people step up.

which is why it is of particular note – as i am writing this ahead – on sunday – merely two weeks since joe biden sacrificed his re-election campaign for this country and, subsequently, endorsed the campaign of kamala harris – that in these very last two weeks her campaign has generated $310 million – an extraordinary amount. “two-thirds of the july total came from first-time donors, and a majority of the total was raised from donations of $200 or less,” the campaign said. goodness makes people step up.

i read that former president jimmy carter – an icon of benevolence – turns 100 in october. his centennial birthday is not his biggest goal. voting for the first woman president and for the upholding of democracy is his north star, is keeping him going, is exciting him, even in these late days of his life. goodness makes people step up.

we read and research, watch videos and listen to podcasts. we – in our own zeal to maintain the true democracy of these united states – wish to be able to do something, to make a difference. it was in one of many op ed pieces we in which we immersed, we heard the best advice about that: do what you do. do what you are good at. (not verbatim)

and so, we write. it’s what we do. it’s the thing we know to do. we write and write and write.

there may be days you disagree with one of us, with both of us. and that’s ok. that’s what it means to live in a democracy – you get to have your opinion.

but it is our hope – our fervent hope – that, like us, if what you read disturbs you, that you follow it…you do the research…ask questions…search your heart and soul. it is our hope that the popularity of the angerwagon does not tease you into passivity, does not step on the goodness that we know is in you. it is our hope – and we will repeat this over and over and over – that you really look at what it is you wish for…really, truly wish for…for you, your family, your grandchildren, your extended family, your friends, your community, this country…and evaluate – clearheadedly and grounded in truth – what it is you will vote for.

because goodness makes people step up.

“there is no greatness where there is no simplicity, goodness and truth.” (leo tolstoy)

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

INSTRUMENT OF PEACE 48″ x 91″ mixed media

CONTACT US to purchase INSTRUMENT OF PEACE painting

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overcoming adversity thrive in harsh conditions


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illumination. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

it was one of those and-the-light-goes-on moments.

i was just scrollin’ along on social media and came across a meme that said this:

“if someone treats you badly, just remember that there is something wrong with them, not you. normal people don’t go around destroying other human beings.”

amazing where you find illumination.

and, battling back my own fuzzy remnants of hurt, i could see it. through the cluster of experiences, the middle of confusion, the unanswered questions, the mind-boggling chaos, i could see it.

and – like you – in any circumstance wherein you found yourself equally as astounded at the behavior of another person or other persons – i could see the rational logic in this simple statement.

we are all capable – and guilty – of hurting others at some point. we would not be human were we to be above this.

but the other-level-ness, unequivocally deliberate poor treatment – is another story. and those among us who have been privy to this sort of thing need remember this meme.

because – in plain language – normal people are not super mean like that. normal people are not agenda-driven like that. normal people are not pushing others under water. normal people don’t lie to substantiate their actions.

normal people choose kindness. normal people appreciate each other. normal people consider what is best for all, recognizing our interdependency. normal people lift each other up. normal people hold each other up. normal people are honest and transparent.

normal people are normal.

and wretched nastiness is not normal.

illumination indeed.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

HELPING HANDS acrylic 53.5″ x 15.25″

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here and now. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

to get out of our heads.

to be in the here and now.

to breathe.

…reasons we play rummikub.

if you haven’t tried it, don’t knock it. it’s a fun game and it totally makes us unplug.

next up, i think he is going to teach me how to play cribbage – which, for his family, is kind of a rite of passage. to say i have trepidation might be an understatement.

i’m thinking we need to pull out the scrabble game. or maybe yahtzee. (yes…thank you, i’d like games-i-usually-win-for-1000 please lol.)

regardless of the game, these summer evenings of late we have been seeking ways to step out of what’s happening right now.  in no uncertain terms does that mean ignore what is happening. it does not mean sticking our heads in the sand. it does not mean we won’t research or ask questions or be informed or suggest ways for others to learn the truth of what is happening.  it just acknowledges that we all need a break.

so, for just a little bit of time, we will step away from the merciless news, away from the computers and the phone apps, away from the polarized politics, away from the frightening thoughts of peril we are feeling, away from the ever-present question what-can-we-do.  for just a little bit of time, we will step out of the present – step to the side – to a place where we might rejuvenate – rest – so that we can reinvest our energy back into this world as best we can.

a little mango sorbet and a few games of rummikub may not sound like a vacation, but it gives us a bit of headspace, something else to focus on – a breather.

there’s nothing quite like a board game at the bistro table on the deck on a hot summer night with dogga under our feet, sorbet at the ready, garden lights on – to bring us back to here and now. even for a moment.

and that, my friends, is the one thing of which we are sure.

here and now.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

INSTRUMENT OF PEACE mixed media 48″ x 91″

the prayer featured on david’s INSTRUMENT OF PEACE painting: Lord, make me an instrument of your peace: where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy. (prayer of st. francis)

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the tide. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

tuesday i was unnerved. it started small – with a reminder from and an uneasiness about people and the surprising ways they turn on others. it grew as i re-read my recents posts of the last few days, an ache in my heart. it grew even larger as we read news articles and studied sites of information. it grew as i watched youtube videos and read fact-checked information.

“these moments left me feeling worried and afraid, realizing what we stood to lose and how easily it could happen.” (*michelle obama – the light we carry)

at the end of the day, i was cranky at david who was cranky back and i wanted to scream … at something, at someone.

i didn’t scream. instead, i wept.

i had lost the day – this beautiful, humid, hot summer day – the only one i would get on july 9th 2024. “but, but…,” my brain interrupts, wanting to justify the loss.

and – in every critical-thinking way, i would agree with my brain – there is so much that is ugly and we have much to lose in this hot mess of a country. it could easily happen. and i am worried and afraid.

in a life-way though? i know i lost the day. all of it. and in the usual good rhythm of our time together, we had lost our day together.

the tide comes in. the tide goes out. it is certain.

and so, we try to deliberately hyper-focus on here and now. we try to focus on our breathing. we try to hold hands and walk slow.

we also try to do the best we can to be aware, to educate ourselves, to speak up and speak out, to ask questions, to try and understand what is happening, what could happen – differentiate between what is real and what is fictitious, what is terrifying potential and what is propagandized narrative.

i am worried and afraid.

and the tide comes in. and the tide goes out. that is certain.

*****

(*though that is not the context of michelle’s words in the above quote, their relevance struck me as i began to read her book today.)

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

SPOONS AND SANDCASTLES mixed media 28″ x 57.5″

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fly. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

“fly me to the moon and let me play among the stars…” (bart howard)

my uncle allen sang. his love of singing – through years of lessons and practice – often starred in our living room, where my brother would play guitar, i would play organ or piano and allen would sing. there is not a time i hear “fly me to the moon” without thinking about him or his devoted support of me.

it was my uncle allen who first encouraged me to record. it was my uncle allen who financially supported those early recording sessions. it was my uncle allen who celebrated the three-song cassette when it was done, ordering extra copies for everyone. it was my uncle allen who was my first go-to and my confidante when life-as-i-knew-it fell apart, when music-as-i-knew-it was shattered and when i fled new york. it was my uncle allen who built a house in florida that i could rent from him, trying to heal with no victim advocate or the assistance of any therapy. and it was my uncle allen who celebrated when i finally – sixteen years later – started recording again.

the third ward in milwaukee is one of our favorite places in which to wander about. i have a thing for paper and notebooks and pencils and all things stationery, so i find broadway paper a joyful shop. their paper airplane mobiles enchant over by the entrance door that shares the vestibule for marn art & culture hub. the exposed beams, exposed ductwork, exposed brick – ahh – d and i could live in such a space. we spent the afternoon strolling around with 20, in and out of shoppes. a tiny crazy air plant called my name and we bonded; “waukee” was the only purchase we brought home with us. we sat at the public market, had wine and gumbo and fried clams. it was all heavenly.

i searched in the hall closet – an utter melange of stuff: games, crafts, 10×10 vendor tent weights, playing cards – and found what i was looking for: the last vestiges of the origami airplane folding kit. because their dad was a pilot, this paper airplane kit was a big hit with our children. but i remembered there were a few pieces of origami paper left and – more importantly – the directions on how to fold. mayyyybe d and i will channel the mobile-making juju of groundbreaking mobile sculptor alexander calder … or, at the very least, channel broadway paper.

in the meanwhile i dove into the thickly-filled drawers of old file cabinets in my studio. and found the other thing i was looking for: the sheet music for fly me to the moon. it is pretty likely i’ll play that later and d and i will sing it – in great honor and loving memory of my uncle allen – a man for whom i am grateful, who is likely singing on the clouds, who generously encouraged soaring and playing among the stars.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

HELPING HANDS mixed media 53.5″ x 15.25″

happiest happy birthday to our beloved dogga. ❤️

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on and on. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

the daisy might have thought no one would notice it. that it was past being noticed.

but i was drawn to it as we passed by. nestled in the grasses on the side of the trail, it spoke to me.

“i am not done, though look past my prime.

i am still in the sun, still standing in time.

though shrivelly and dried,

i don’t need to hide;

i know i am beauty and am very alive.”

i was surprised to hear a daisy speaking in rhyme, but not surprised at its expression of beauty, its yearning to be poetic.

i’m finding more and more – in my time in the sun now – that it is the poetry that makes me linger. it is the waning moment in the sun, the flower post-bloom, the cracked plaster, the weathered peel of paint. it is the imperfection that is attractive, the slowing gait, the putting-down of ladders, the simplicity of less.

like the daisy – i don’t know what’s next. i am steeped in the here. biding in the meadow.

but right now daisy’s yellow disc florets are in symphony – in a song to the sun and everyone else under the sky – whether or not anyone chooses to listen. it will continue on and on, weaving through the underbrush and the woods, past the river and up, up floating in clouds. it won’t cease…it is not done.

my song to the sun is gathering up energy. it, too, is not done. though nebulous, i can sense it wakening. though slightly beaten and weathered, i can feel it rising. though slower, i am aware of its resilience. though tentative, i recognize its imperative. the downbeat waits patiently.

a poem. a symphony.

like daisy.

on and on.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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