reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: DR thursday


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front door fan. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

we are back door people. we haven’t always been back door people, but years ago the handle on the front door refused to unlock properly, so the only sensible thing to do was become back door people. and so, ever since then, i could count the number of times we have used the front door as our entry – even since the locksmith came and fixed the front door lock.

but lately – with the significant amount of ice on our driveway from the ice-damming of which you are weary of reading about – we have been parking in the driveway a bit further down and – drumroll – going in the front door.

this confuses the dog. he has gotten used to our entry through the backdoor – it’s been the norm for most of his life. when we come in the front door, he arrives in the living room looking a bit befuddled. but dogga comes around quickly – acknowledging our arrival home – and his aussie wigglebutt starts wagging.

i have to say – though it’s been quite a while now since the locksmith smithed the lock – having two options as doors feels rather decadent. and gives one a different perspective on one’s home.

i haven’t been an attached-garage person for three and a half decades – though that was fun while it lasted. the never-get-wet, never-get-cold, never-get-hot, never-get-misted on – all of that – is rather nice. but that ended in florida and I wouldn’t trade the non-attached-garage personhood identity for florida residency.

so. the front door.

because we used to exit LBS or big red and walk down the driveway toward the garage and through the ever-popular metal accordion-folding ghetto fence, up the deck steps and across the deck to the back door, we would see back yard things on our way in. we’d gaze and stop and comment – on breck-our-aspen, on the flowers, on the deck seating areas, on the birdfeeder or birdbath birds, on the squirrels – whatever caught our interest, struck our fancy.

now – at least in these last two weeks – we have been – really – noticing the front door stuff. it is impossible to not appreciate the grasses as you walk to the front door. and in these last snowfalls, these grasses are utterly gorgeous. bent under the weight of the heavy sticky snow, they gracefully give to the season, knowing that their return in the spring and summer will be mighty. each blade, each frond – yellowed with autumn – now covered with pristine white fluff.

when you allow things to take your breath away – even simple things – it is amazing how many things will do just that.

one of these days we will go back to primarily using the back door. there’s always lots to see, despite how well we know these bitty routes in daily life.

in the meanwhile, i’m gonna be a front door fan.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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icicle-laden. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

these icicles are not for the meek. we are, luckily, not meek. we are well-versed in icicles and in the removal of icicles. well, at this moment, make that the continual removal of icicles.

the gutter guy came the other day. it was in the 20s out, so it felt like a heatwave. but not enough of a heatwave to do any work on the gutters. though we are scheduled for the future, we are still gutter-challenged, which makes us icicle-laden.

it helps to drive around our neighborhood of old houses and see other houses with hanging ice sculptures as well. usually, the only difference is that their sculptures are hanging off their extended soffit and fascia – something i wish we had on our steeply pitched cape cod roof. but alas, we don’t. so our icing is a tad more threatening to the inside of our home than theirs. suffice it to say, it does my heart good to see someone else with the same kind of gutter-roof setup as us. no, this is not schadenfreude. it is a shared sense of dread and a big outpouring of empathy.

so i try to take advantage of the unusual conditions and photograph the ice up close and personal, try to see the beauty of it, try to appreciate it. ahyup. it remains ice, nonetheless, and – for us – that is less than enthralling. were we to be viewing an icy waterfall or river we would be captivated. but the ice forming along our roof line holds little charm.

it is most definitely my hope that there is no ice on your roof, that your gutter flows freely, that no damn damming has come your way.

but if it has, know – in your heart – that we are in your camp, we stand – frozen – with you and it warms our heart to know we are not alone. we have wondered if there exist online support groups for ice-damming-survivors. we are ready to help with words of wisdom or tools of the trade should you need them.

because “some people are worth melting for.” (olaf – frozen movie)

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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snowed under. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

so it feels a bit like a continuation from tuesday’s post that i wrote on sunday, but here we are – on monday morning – waking up to a winter wonderland. it all feels kind of early, if you ask me. i mean, it’s only november 10th. but, somehow, in the middle of the night – in those wee hours when i laid awake – in the middle of a great dark hush outside – the kind of hush in which you would never have guessed what was happening – it was snowing. clearly, non-stop.

the sun is coming out now and the sky has that blue that only follows a big snow. crisp, unexpected, inches and inches of snow. since we live by the lake, we were pretty slammed by lake effect and a ruler shows that there are – truly – about 15 inches out there.

we are cozy in here, though. under a comforter and a quilt, sipping coffee, we feel beyond fortunate. we have had our simple breakfast and, even if we can’t get out later, we have leftover food for lunch and dinner. lucky.

what about those people without? there is nothing i can say that would be – in any way – polite language about an administration fighting to continue the cruelty of withholding monies for food. i cannot grok that kind of evil.

i’ve looked – a couple times – at d’s aca healthcare policy to see what his new premium will be. i am well aware that it – a premium already ridiculously expensive – will probably be triple. we also noted that his actual policy will no longer exist and the “comparable” policy that was suggested is one with – no surprise here! – higher deductibles, higher co-pays, a higher maximum out-of-pocket combined with less coverage and – the icing on the cake – zero out-of-network coverage at all.

and who is it that is against universal healthcare??

of course that doesn’t begin to address the violent removal of people that a bigoted administration has decided are not worthy of being here.

one nation, under god, with liberty and justice for all. uh-huh.

so many people – the populace of this country – struggling, desperately trying to stay healthy, to stay fed, to stay safe, to stay alive.

i would never have guessed – in the dark hush of this administration’s years and years of strategizing, scheming, conniving – what was happening, all of what they had planned for this country.

somehow, the siri of the universe seemed to think that we meant “snowed under” literally.

siri was right. both ways.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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

as autumn moves into full bloom, it is track-able on our westneighbor’s fence. the virginia creeper vine is fully immersed in the transition of seasons – producing berries for the birds, changing color day by day.

but there are fewer and fewer leaves now on the vine. dark is longer and colder and the cicadas and night crickets have ceased their song. in turning back the clock, there’s no turning back the clock.

and we head full-tilt into this season, knowing that winter’s lull will follow, that a time of fallow will start.

we blink back the wistful for summer, for early fall’s warmth as we head into the colder seasons. and we try to remember what we treasure about this next season, just six short weeks away.

with different eyes we look to the horizon of each day – changing our expectations, sorting to presence and appreciating each remaining leaf.

and soon the fence will be bare, save for the vining twigs.

but under the soil there is a gathering momentum of energy. and one of these days again – in the way that nature continues and continues – in the way that goodness goes on – it will burst open and we’ll see growth again. the vine knows.

in the meanwhile, we will wait and watch.

and hope.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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

i could see the maple tree up over the roof of the house. it had really grown a lot in the decades since our family lived there. i thought about all the time i had spent in that tree…an innocent poet trying to piece together the world, make sense of it. back then, i was proud to spend time with my family, my beloved dog missi, on the piano bench or the organ bench or tucked against the trunk of my tree, riding my bike (or, later, driving my little vw bug) to the beach or the harbor, studying, doing homework. i taught piano lessons and worked at various part-time jobs – all on or adjacent to larkfield road – the main artery through our town. going back to these places after long years away makes one realize how small it all was – this world around me – with everything nearby and a steadfast belief in rainbows and sunrises and seagulls.

i wasn’t street-wise back in those days – not at all. the guys i worked with loved to test my naïveté by telling jokes and laughing before the punchline. in an effort to mask that i never really got the joke (particularly if it was a “dirty joke”), i’d laugh when they laughed. they caught me every time. but i didn’t care. it was a happy life and i was ever-so-slowly learning about the real world.

i wondered how it would feel when we first drove down into northport from high above the harbor. this cherished town, this dock – a place of inspiration for me – had taken on different meaning from the time long ago, when i left so abruptly. the sadness i felt leaving a place so ingrained in me had never left. there was grief, deep grief. as my innocence was shattered, my home – these shining places that were part and parcel to who i was had been tarnished. nothing was the same and i wondered what that would feel like, if i would feel misfit.

at first – as i’ve written – there was a disconnect. i’m certain it was a protective measure, something that would maybe prevent me from feeling the grief, touching it, maybe releasing bits of it. but the spirit – of the little village, the harbor, the dock, the gazebo, the beach, the maple tree in the distance – all swirled around me. and, as d and i created new memories there, my guarded heart opened.

the sunsets over the harbor are stunning. the inky nights on the dock are magical. i took them with me as we left, this time slowly, not fleeing.

and as we sit at the little bistro table in our sunroom, with driftwood and rocks from that place, it’s a different kind of grief i feel now. it’s the grief of missing a place that is indelibly etched in me, that is part of what has made me who i am, that is woven into what will heal me.

“…the waters part to let them go.

the wake follows, alone.”

(night dock – january 1977)

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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what harbors are for. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

even in torrents of rain i wanted him to hear the clanking of metal-rigged sails. even in torrents of rain i wanted him to sit on the benches and watch the water. even in torrents of rain i wanted him to feel the dark sky blanket this harbor.

the design of the small pavilion at the end of the dock has stood the test of time – this slip-less harbor site where most boats are moored off-dock, with skiffs back and forth.

it is one of the places i go – in my mind – when i go ‘home’.

i spent a lot of time in this little coastal town. many poems and lyrics got their start on the boards of this dock, the waters of this place. there is a deep vibration here that resonates in me. i was grateful to immerse in a bit of time there with d. i knew he would love it too.

so as the tropical-storm-nor’easter pounded the island, we walked in its fury. drenched, we sat on the dock, watching the reflection of lights on the churning water. we were silent and we leaned in, to speak over the wind.

it seemed right to be there in the middle of the storm.

the sun came out after a couple days. we sat on the dock again. the waves had calmed, the wind had lessened, the rain was gone.

but the harbor remembered. it remembered sheltering the coast from the pummeling.

that’s what harbors are for.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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lessons from plumes. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

it’s a two-sided coin.

these stunning plumes rise above the grasses, catching the breezes, the last vestiges of light as the sun sinks, a place for lagging butterflies to linger a moment, catch their breath.

but – the tiny seeds that form these stunning plumes are actually tiny swords that find their way onto clothing and dogga and into every manner of places and stab us time and again. they are inescapable. they are incessant. they seemingly multiply like the needles from a fresh-cut scotch pine in december – and january and february and even march.

it’s a problem.

reluctant to deal with it, we put up with the pointy seedheads for a while, poking fun at their stubborn ability to show up – simply everywhere – even while suffering.

until it just seems silly that we are enduring this pointed attack on our peaceful existence – capitulating to these ornamental grasses – these beautiful, elegantly flowing sculptures around our yard.

but it’s solvable.

and so, we decide to snip off the plumes that bend over, arcing to attach themselves to dogga or our passing-by. we decide to snip off the plumes that block the sidewalk to our front door. we decide that we can have it both ways – gorgeous grasses with upright plumes catching the light, the wind, the creatures but no low-hanging attack plumes. we figure out what to do with our – beloved – grasses.

because that’s what adults do when faced with – even the smallest – problem. we negotiate a solution that will not cause more pain.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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celestial ballet. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

by the time it was late enough to see both, we were tired. saturn and the moon were supposed to be sharing close space in the night sky, but it was cloudy and we seriously needed to sleep. the show went on without us, somewhere behind the clouds a glorious celestial ballet.

and the universe carries on with universe stuff. our planet earth still rotates on its axis and moves through its elliptical revolution around the sun with gravity keeping us in check in the solar system. through no effort on our part, it all just happens.

but when the universe picks up high-powered binoculars and zeroes in on planet earth, i wonder about how it views what’s really going on. when the universe dons readers and looks at the fine print of what humanity is really doing to its mother earth and its inhabitants, i wonder if there is a sinking feeling, a loss of hope, gossamer strands of what-is-goodness floating off and off, sans gravity.

lucky for us that – despite insane efforts at denying climate change, an abhorrent lack of environmental responsibility, vicious bigoted and hideous genocidal initiatives, flippant care of wildlife and natural resources, what seems a staunch dedication to a lack of peace-on-earth – we – on this floating globe – somehow are granted another day.

it’s no surprise we’re tired. it’s no surprise a lot of people are tired.

and the ballet goes on.

for now.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

EARTH INTERRUPTED VI (50.25″x41″)

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even the tiniest flower. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

this tiniest flower of spanish needles reminds me of tenacity…as every plant produces about 1200 seeds to ensure its continued propagation – its desire to be in this world.

to be in this world…to be a part of this universe…to be valued.

we walk – when we walk in the ‘hood – past this plant every day. and every day i am enchanted by these tiny blossoms, in each phase of their living, each season they exist.

and i wonder how so many people – so cavalier – so uncaring – right-here-right-now – in this country – find it so hard to care about the very existence of other people when it is really so very easy to be grateful for the even the tiniest flower.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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what now? [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

“who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? the shadow knows.“

in early october 2020 i wrote a blogpost and quoted this same line from this vintage radio show – the shadow. that show – from way back – the late 30s through the early 50s – stated “as you sow evil, so shall you reap evil“. watching our country reeling – in a voting cycle after four years spent in political hell – in the relatively early stages of the covid pandemic, i asked, “what now?“

it’s five years later and the (repeat) administration of this country has traveled further down the road of evil than i ever thought possible back then. and i ask, “what now?“

carlos ruiz zafon said, “some things can only be seen in the shadows.“

the shadow soul of our country – and its inhabitants – is on display.

what now?

*****

from a distance

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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