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in full bloom. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

“after all those years as a woman hearing ‘not thin enough, not pretty enough, not smart enough, not this enough, not that enough,’ almost overnight i woke up one morning and thought, ‘i’m enough.'” (anna quindlen)

i’m pretty certain that the hibiscus does not stop to ponder if it is ‘enough’. it just buds and blooms and shows up in the world in a big, big way.

i’m also pretty certain that – were the hibiscus to offer advice to women everywhere – it would advise us all to – likewise – just bud and bloom and show up in the world in a big, big way. it would encourage us to not ponder anything – particularly whether or not we were ‘enough’, likely whether-or-not anything at all.

i had a dream last night – the part that i remember is that i had something to say…and in my dream i contacted a younger woman to ask her to say it – because somehow, in my dream, i had passed the point of being heard – my age had made my words irrelevant, no longer of value, my voice weightless.

even in my dream i knew this was wrong and when i woke I wondered why i was dreaming this – though there are so many dots connecting this i am foolish to even wonder.

i watched a video where the interviewer asked the interviewee about when this country was great. the man – exquisitely dressed in gq magazine garb – replied with a year in the early 1900s, before world war one, in 1913. the year of the women’s suffrage parade – among many other things – the interviewer pressed, “oh, so before women could vote?” to which the fabulously-dressed-interviewee replied, “right!”

what the ever-lovin’ hell is that?

watching the dismantling of women’s rights in this country is exhausting. listening to pompous suit-wearing gluttonous testosterone-focused men tout the value of men and the devaluing of women is utterly disgusting. witnessing men strip women of the right to make decisions about their own health and well-being sickens me. sexually exploiting girls and women, stonewalling all manner of culpability, and perpetuating undeniably dishonest and disrespectful silence is grotesque. and the whole twisted trad-wife kitchen-lizard-birth-control-less-pregnant-my-husband-can-vote-for-me-i’m-good-with-that-and-goodness-let’s-make-sure-we-address-his-erectile-dysfunction-and-bow-to-his-needing-a-sandwich movement makes purple stuff wanna burst out of my head.

i mean – truly – what in the hell is going on?

if this is where this country is full-steam-ahead heading, we are most definitely regressing, backsliding into a retrograde sans stopgaps. this is primitive thinking of the highest nature.

and even the hibiscus knows it.

i woke up a little bit crabby after dreaming that i turned over what i had to say to a younger, thinner, less wrinkly, more ‘relevant’ woman.

and, like anna quindlen, i thought to myself, “the hell with that. i’m enough.”

i have a few things to say here and i’m in full bloom.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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tabouli party. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

in dramatically exciting news, this has been the week of tabouli. with heat indexes off the charts, it’s a refreshing change of pace.

it’s only mid-july and already our little potting stand garden is rocking. we have sooo much mint, a wild burst of chives and some curly parsley (our flat parsley has been the incredible-shrinking parsley – which must be because it’s on the preferred diet choices of our local squirrels.) the first batch of jalapeños are ready to harvest, many of the cherry tomatoes are orange-ing up, the basil is happily basil-ing along.

in an effort to use the herbs of which we have plenty, it brought to mind our quinoa tabouli – which uses the harvest we already have at our fingertips.

in these days of sickly sticky parasites invading the fruits and vegetables of these united states it feels extra good to have just gone a few steps outside to clip off what i needed for this fresh salad. it is a weird world with way too many things to worry about.

pasta with basil, homemade pizza margherita, jalapeño poppers, pesto, mint and lemon suntea that basked on the deck…and soon…more of our own cherry tomatoes for everything under the sun…the recipes line up in wait.

our adirondack chairs adjacent to our little burgeoning herbandveggie garden, we sat outside – after dinner – after sunset – while the fireflies danced through the backyard – and talked. our tiki-type torches lit, dogga conked out on the deck, we reviewed yet another strange set of days – strange in an insane number of ways. we wondered – yet again – what we can do.

we are beyond saddened by the schisms that deepen with every single corrupt thing that is reported (leaving us to truly ponder what is too opaque – too silenced – too hidden – to be reported, even by hardworking alternative media sources.)

and yet we know – even with our intense sadness – that there is no going back. anyone who thinks that all this is acceptable in any way – including what seems too easy to avoid – the new veggiefruit parasites running rampant because of this administration’s gluttonous greed and incompetence – is lost to us. that loss is mindboggling. it is heartwrenching.

and so, i guess we’ll just party on with our tabouli.

*****

WEEPING MAN mixed media 48″ x 36″ (available for purchase)

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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

in the “what’s in your wallet” series of ads, adorable jennifer garner is featured as a fixture of the marketing campaign. pictured everywhere, she quips, “what’s in your wallet?” advertising for the capital one credit card.

staring south down lake michigan we can sometimes see itty-bitty evidence of the chicago skyline. the curvature of the earth…the line of sight – slightly angled upward looking south – appears farther east, the right atmospheric conditions and refraction of light in the atmosphere…bending light’s path, the time of day…best when the sun is lower in the sky: all factors in the the ability to see even portions of that incredible skyline. the words “what’s on your horizon?” come to mind.

as the sun set in the west, the east put on a show the other day. with shades of trader joe’s dried mango slices and glasses of provence rosé dancing along the horizon, i waved at chicago, fully believing our son could see it. the magic of the horizon is like that.

i suppose that we don’t know – day to day – what will really be on our horizon. there are no guarantees and so we really should do the best we can to live best each of these days – chock full of horizon possibilities. like my sweet momma said, who would have been 105 a few days ago on the 5th, “live life, my sweet potato”.

but in these uncertain times we find we also have to draw some lines – on our horizon. we cannot pollyanna that which is ‘out there’. there are things we refuse to ignore, things that impact people we love and care about and, yes, even people we do not know, things that are based on cruel and extremist ideologies (if you can even call them ‘ideologies’ – which seems generous, considering the intentions behind them). there are things that color our days, whether or not they directly affect us. we can’t look away or be dismissive. we can’t become part of a kind of conscious avoidance, of avoiding the seeing of or learning about what is really happening in an escape to having to push-back against it, or – even worse – a denial of knowledge of its existence. the horizon is all of it. all the layers.

and even in the day to day of our lives – with all the layers of personal stuff to deal with on our own horizons – it is impossible to not feel the burden of trying to save this democracy, the heavy weight of trying to hold true to the constitution and its amendments, all the colors of what it means to live right now coalescing to make our horizon complicated.

we look down the lake, squinting to see chicago. sometimes the view is clear and sometimes – when the conditions are not in place – it is totally obstructed.

maybe we need to keep looking – to view, to discern our horizon at all different times of day and night, during all different weather circumstances, at all ages and stages – in order to get an accurate picture of what’s really out there, to grok the magic and the challenge of the horizon: all its choices and decisions, all its beauty and its ugly, all it can show us about living authentically – so that we can honestly answer “what’s on your horizon?”

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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no outlines. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

a full box of crayolas at my side, i, too, in my itty-bitty chair at the itty-bitty table, would outline the image on the coloring book page and then color it all in. like there was some artistic reason for outlining – making a definitive and clear break between the image and the background. for a non-artistic-in-the-sense-of-drawing type, it seemed to make my coloring page look better, cleaner, more striking. i’m not really sure. but it was a popular thing to do – this outlining thing – and, though i don’t know who initially suggested it, nearly everyone colored their pages that way. you could see it on the ever-important bulletin board wall.

if i were to pick up a coloring book and crayons now i might even just fall back into old patterns, grasping the crayola stub in my hand tightly, pursing my lips and concentrating on not drawing off the line. then i would color it all in – in the lines – and my page would be neat and tidy and whatever other adjective might apply, synonymous with success.

when i color in “adult-colored-pencil-coloring-books” i have found that i don’t do this – i just color with my pointy pencils – no outlines, no outlining. is it the difference between the paraffin wax/powdered color pigment combo of crayons and the pigments/binding agents/fillers/casing used in pencils? is it some leftover art lesson from elementary school – where the emphasis was on some sort of impossible sought-after perfection for our coloring sheets? and why – knowing me – did i not color out of the lines? well, i can answer that one. back then i was an in-the-lines colorer, going with the crowd, hoping to get my picture on the bulletin board wall.

i move up close to the peonies in our garden out back. they stand their ground as i move around, right in their little peony faces, alternately snapping photos and taking big whiffs of their intoxicating scent.

there are no outlines here. everything up this close blurs as my depth of field changes, my point of focus changes, my intent changes.

were i to make this photograph a coloring sheet – an accurate coloring sheet – it would require fuzzy lines – no clear outline – instead, a fade of one color into the next, maybe difficult to capture with a stub of crayon looking to make something definitive.

but life is more like that. less definitive, more fuzzy. it is less distinct and more out-of-focus. it is less green and white, and more grey. there are no outlines and, if you really get it, there’s no ever-important bulletin-board-wall upon which to hang up your life.

it just is.

and the moments we get to sniff peonies or color out of the lines, to allow the unfocused to swirl around us, to not get all caught up in the bulletin-board-wall – those are the moments to grasp, to hold onto, to store away as balm for those other moments – the ones that test us, that hand us crayons with impossible confidence-taxing expectations, that, somehow, in all the chaos, make us forget that peonies exist. craziness.

and so, no outlines. just color.

“…you write about my flower as if i think and see what YOU think and see of the flower – and i don’t.” (georgia o’keeffe)

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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big water. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

we sometimes forget.

as close as we are, as much of a presence it is for us, we sometimes forget that this giant lake is right there.

we walk along it, we drive past, we linger – staring at it. but we still forget the magnitude of lake michigan, its oft-seemingly-own weather pattern, the big-water force it has on us.

i’ve never not lived near water, big water. my growing-up town on long island is between the atlantic ocean and the long island sound. i lived in florida a hop, skip and a jump to the gulf of mexico. on island we were right on water’s edge on the lake michigan side. and here – a block or so off the lake. i don’t know what it is like to live in an area that doesn’t have big water, that’s land-locked. i suspect i could find it difficult. so, near or on a lake will have to be the future minimum standard. somehow, big water all makes me feel closer to the far horizon, closer to the universe, closer to a two-way with god.

valerie bertinelli in her book enough already wrote, “i [] had long since lapsed in terms of structured religion. but i [] had develop[ed] a recipe for my own spiritual soup. it still included a belief in god, a higher power who accepted collect calls in emergencies.”

i, too, have lapsed in terms of structured religion and i, too, have my own spiritual soup. after thirty-five years of working for churches plus all the rest of being at churches, i have had enough of it all. i realize now that my last church job did me a favor when they fired me. they broke the continuity, making it possible to NOT do that which seems obvious TO do. i am grateful. it was a long time and i endured much at churches that you would likely rather not know. it was time to stop.

but my faith has not stopped. and as i stood at the edge of the sound a couple times in last months, as i stand at the edge of our lake michigan, i can feel the tidal strength of the universe. i can feel the days sink into nights into days into nights. i can start to understand the stars and the vast-ness. i can feel the connection to that which is so much bigger than me.

maybe that is what big water does for me: a place that brings the divine closer, just across the waves, just beyond the shore, just brushing the sand and leaving shells and rocks in its wake, just right here for me. a place to gaze and stare, a place to ponder and pray.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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stars. particularly now. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

d just painted over a huge canvas that prominently featured a star. i asked him why he painted over it, for i like stars, the universal message of stars, just the whole thing of stars. he said he thought that the painting looked like a hotel print, so ixnay on that aintingpay.

he has since continued painting this canvas – with earth-toned hues. day is done is clearly – to me – a portrait of the end of day beyond a dramatic hill landscape, the sky glowing a pre-dusk orange, the sun setting.

“day is done/gone the sun/from the lakes, from the hills, from the sky/all is well, safely rest/god is nigh.

fading light dims the sight/and a star gems the sky, gleaming bright/from afar, drawing nigh/falls the night.

thanks and praise/for our days/’neath the sun, ‘neath the stars, ‘neath the sky/as we go/this we know/god is nigh.” (“taps”)

star-flowered lily of the valley are important pollinators and – later in the season – develop berries which are a perfect food for birds. they truly hold an important place in the ecosystem in the woods…’neath the sun, ‘neath the stars, ‘neath the sky.

the star-flowered lily of the valley is native, its white star-shaped flowers delicate. they are little constellations of beauty, nestled in the green of their frond-y leaves. they are joyful little flowers; they simply make me happy as we hike.

because stars are like that.

and we can all use a reminder of comfort and protection of the universe. particularly now.

*****

DAY IS DONE

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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every ounce. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

we have a relationship with mason jars. ball, kerr, various other brands, it doesn’t matter. we even have a relationship with faux mason jars – the smuckers jelly jars that we used to use for wine, the bonne maman jam jars we currently use as water glasses.

at our wedding we had dozens of mason jars, daisies tucked into all of them. some were ours and we borrowed some (does that work as something borrowed, something blue…?) because way back when – when i first moved to wisconsin – i got hooked on these jars.

my dear friend linda and i would attend the late 80s/early 90s craft fairs, peruse antique shoppes. her home was a celebration of all-things-vintage and i fell in love with it. there were textures and stories – a distinct warmth – everywhere and buying-vintage became a viable – and smart – option for me. we have several metal flour sifters as a result of that and a collection of old wooden textile mill spools and bobbins (from the 19th and earlier 20th centuries). when other people were buying cutesy painted tchotchkes, i was lusting over old wooden boxes, lidded crates and blue mason jars.

we stopped at a couple antique shoppes recently, looking for a small wooden garden table for a plant or two on our deck. we had purchased one last spring but then d loved it so much outside he brought it inside in the fall to serve as his bedside table. now he is a devotee to this little peeling-paint garden table and we are on the hunt for another.

i don’t suppose many people would have brought this table inside – or the old glider – or the chunks of concrete – or the birdhouse – or the chiminea. but in an effort-that-is-no-effort to have a home that doesn’t look like it’s staged-and-ready-for-sale or is a furniture-outlet showroom or magazine piece, we dive into our intuitive to use the things that really speak to us, that are organic, that have stories. i maintain that everyone should be required to purchase mostly used things – there is just too much stuff in the world and i can’t imagine why we need even more manufactured stuff. but i digress.

in that same vein, though, we have started regularly using the things that we have found in our going-through the basement, the attic, the closets. we are eliminating plastic here and there and choosing the cut-glass vessels for our carrot sticks and salty snacks. we are soon going to reconfigure the stuff in the cabinets under the counter in the kitchen – to make access easier to the old pyrex, the fenton hobnail, the cut-glass.

we have found we have no real need to purchase many things. i’m not sure if that comes with age or if that comes with a bit of wisdom – or if those are one and the same. our inclination is to use what we have, to not save things for “good” (which is particularly difficult for me), to minimize as much as we can.

every now and then we find something that just pokes at us, prodding us to bring it home. there is a raw rough-hewn clay pot from northport, a couple linen napkins from the same boutique. there is a new peace sign button hanging in littlebabyscion. but way more has gone out than come in – donated, sold on marketplace or poshmark. less is most definitely more. especially in these times.

the blue ball jars all lined up at this shoppe made me smile. the proprietor clearly loves organization; everything there was in categories, lined up or gathered for ease of perusing through. we had no impulse to buy anything, but loved our walk through.

because each time we walk an antique shoppe, we have stories to tell – about the stuff of growing-up, about things we have previously owned, about stuff we never had or never wanted, about – well – life.

if you have never taken a walk through any vintage shop, you might consider it.

it’s generative in a way you might not expect, with sudden glimpses into the decades that have past, with moments when your heart surges – focused on a memory, with a wistfulness that reminds you of how fleeting it all is and how very much we need to “wring out every ounce of life, breath by breath, [all] that this world has to offer.” (words from a text from dear friend lisa.)

*****

CHASING BUBBLES mixed media 33.25″ x 48″

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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fiddlehead life. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

the ferns are curly-cuing their way up – out of the ground – taller and taller every day. they are spectacular, these fiddleheads, coiled fronds answering the beckoning of the sun.

this particular photo of our ferns in our fern garden strikes me as very maternal…as if the momma fern is looking out for the young ferns following suit – the one with tilted head, the one not yet fully unearthed. i am reminded of one of d’s paintings…mother-daughter…the never-ending inclination to protect, to hold close, to comfort.

but unfurling-life doesn’t provide us with the never-ending opportunity to physically hold our children, to physically protect them, to physically comfort them. instead, they scatter – like wildflower seeds – as they must – as they should – and we parents are left to watch over them from afar, to celebrate their successes and hold fast their hearts when they are mourning. we have not given up our connection, but it is stretched out far and we find we must also rely on the grace of the universe to protect, to hold, to comfort them.

as our own beautiful children – now in their thirties – move about the world being who they are, i miss them, the preciousness of their presence.

i sometimes miss the days when they were reliant on me (and their dad) for most things. those days were intense, busy, skewed mostly in the direction of making sure their needs were met, that we provided for them the best we could, that we offered up opportunity as well as critical boundaries, that we cheered their journeys.

i sometimes miss the days when they had new freedom…those days they were in college and littlebabyscion was the moving van again and again, taking them to and fro, witnessing year by year their growing independence.

i sometimes miss the days when they were newly out of college, when they weren’t quite as established as now, when home still kind of meant wisconsin.

in going-through the basement, the attic, the closets, all the rooms of the house, i try hard to remember that the things of those times will not help me hold onto those times. i try hard to remember that their baby clothes, their early toys, the old trinkets from their rooms, their junior high notebooks will not keep those times at hand. i try to release all that as i go, my heart trying to just gently hold the memories i can remember, my heart trying to tenderly – empathetically – hold my heart. i try to be a good fern in a big world of fern gardens.

and now, as the frond that burst out of the soil first, the frond that unfurled first, the frond that aged first, i glance at the verdant fiddleheads following. i could not be more proud. i could not love them more. and i will never not miss physically holding, protecting or comforting them as they answer the beckoning sun.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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my town. this time. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

the texture was different this time. being there was different.

this time i didn’t feel the same sense of deep sadness everywhere i went. this time i didn’t feel as disconnected, as unwilling to recognize the significance of these places in my life’s timeline. this time i didn’t try to stave off any feeling of affinity, any bond or relationship to these roads, the sand, the harbor, the dock, the salty air. i didn’t slink back from it all, didn’t hide instead in now, in after.

i still felt the loss. i still felt the trauma. i still felt pain.

but i also felt immense love for this place. i felt pride. i felt connection.

this time was different.

and as we walked around – arm in arm, as we do – i felt comforted being there. this visit put dots on the i’s, crossed the t’s. it gave me back my growing-up years. “i’m from here,” i kept saying.

what has happened in our lives will forever be a texture of our lives. i can look back and see how it all impacted me – really, forever.

but this time i was able to distinguish the place from the trauma. i was able to separate them out and not blame that which shouldn’t be blamed. i was able to love on my hometown while recognizing those who had tarnished it in my heart. and i was able to reclaim the place as my own.

the painted brick wall is over by the bakery. it’s gorgeous, an exterior wall of a big old long island lighting (LILCO) building built in 1924. beautifully peeling white paint, it is striking each time we walk past. the textures of this place are visceral for me.

we sat at the bar in skipper’s, sipping from wine glasses that state “since 1978”. the synchronicity is not lost on me. 1978 was the year. back then i owned this town, that place. all the world was open, people were mostly to be trusted, i was a sunrise/rainbows/poet-in-a-tree girl – a budding peony waiting to bloom, to burst into the rest of the world.

and then.

there is a reality to my trauma, like there is for anyone who has experienced the same. it has played a role in my health, my emotions, my relationships, my ability to trust others, every decision, every bit of the arc of my personal and professional life.

we brought home the wine glasses, holding onto my town and all the moments before – and after – everything changed.

*****

19 & 64

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no time to waste. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

we have two sets of flatware. forks, cake forks, knives, teaspoons and tablespoons, i (and we) have purchased neither set.

the first set has been with me since my very first apartment. my grandmother, mama dear, gave me this set – subsets of it were incentive gifts for deposits into a local bank on long island – so mama dear made enough deposits for a whole set. it moved with me everywhere i have moved since that first apartment. i added wooden-handled steak knives to it – also incentives from a company – and, later, baby spoons and forks, but i never replaced the flatware set.

when my sweet momma died, her flatware – the stainless steel stuff not her silver – became mine. it was familiar to the touch and welcomed, particularly since many pieces of the first-apartment-floral-pattern had gone missing through the years.

so now we have two sets. sort of. there are pieces missing from both. maybe someday we will purchase a whole new set together. we’ll see. it doesn’t feel like a high priority.

in going through basement bins, i’ve found various other pieces of flatware. there’s a spoon thingy with a place to hold tea leaves, a couple of ladles, silver demitasse spoons with a gold wash from finland, vintage souvenir spoons from florida. we haven’t used any of these spoons or other utensils, though it might be nice to include a piece or two in everyday life.

momma had a box just like the one in this photograph – it was red mahogany in color. it was felt-lined and all the silverware fit neatly into slots or into the shallow drawer underneath. we used the silverware on christmas, on easter, on special occasions. but not every day.

sometimes i think that if i were the current owner of her silver i would consider using it every day. i mean, it’s flatware – designed for use, not for saving or just hoarding with other memorable valuables.

it would seem that my sweet momma would smile from that other dimension if she saw people eating mac and cheese or eggs and potatoes or spaghetti or fried rice with her treasured silver/silver-plated forks.

because, after the fact, i’m sure she realized that saving it for good – and you wonder where i got that from??? – is really silly. indeed, i feel like i would hear her as i stood – hesitant – near the wooden silver chest – insisting, “it’s a fork! it’s just a fork!”

in these days of what seems like peril for this world, i’m thinking i would open up that silver chest and pull out the forks, knives, spoons, all the utensil thingies in there. i’d serve them up with homemade pizza or tomato soup or pasta sauce or tikka masala or whatever.

though i don’t have the silver chest or the silver, i do have the lesson.

now, instead of small dollar-store bowls holding our happy-hour snack-time snacks alongside individual-sized select-a-size paper towels, i pull out the cut-glass vessels, the fenton hobnail serving dish, the small china plates, the cloth napkins.

we have no time to waste.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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