reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: DR thursday


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

“follow me where i go, what i do and who i know. make it part of you to be a part of me. follow me up and down, all the way and all around. take my hand and say you’ll follow me.”

“you see I’d like to share my life with you and show you things i’ve seen. places that i’m going to, places where i’ve been. to have you there beside me, to never be alone. and all the time that you’re with me, we will be at home…” (john denver)

the first time i saw the rockies i was 18. i was in the backseat of my mom and dad’s dodge and they took my breath away. i was changed – those mountains stayed a part of me.

so when it was that he was from there, it just seemed right. our path now includes going there fairly regularly and always a desire to be there more and more, to return and return, to linger. those mountains…it’s that john muir quote: “the mountains are calling and i must go.”

there will be a day soon he will follow me to long island. we’ll go to the regular haunts. we’ll bring sage with us and, having lost them forty-five years ago, i’ll take those places back. and he will be there. with me. our path will take us to the beach and to the harbor, maybe out on the sound, definitely past my old house. we’ve been there together before – because we have followed each other – taking turns leading the way – for over a decade now.

“…take my hand and I will follow you.“ (j.d.)

the path through the john denver sanctuary in aspen leads past boulders of lyrics. we amble our way through, choosing to be slow. we have returned here. we will return again and again.

“come dance with the west wind and touch on the mountain tops, sail o’er the canyons and up to the stars…” (j.d.)

we have danced in places noisy and places quiet. we have danced in places with music and without. we have waltzed on our deck, in our kitchen and on dusty dirt trails. we have carried the wind with us and discovered stars on the horizon we had not noticed before. the path winds and makes unexpected turns. laughing and crying turns. and we trust it together.

“you fill up my senses like a night in the forest, like the mountains in springtime, like a walk in the rain, like a storm in the desert, like a sleepy blue ocean. you fill up my senses, come fill me again.” (j.d.)

and we tell tales of the times we did not share together, the stories of before. sometimes we tell them over and over. they don’t get old. they are the pieces that made up who we met eleven years ago. two weeks after the day we first set eyes on each other, he came back – to see if it had really happened. sometimes you have to see home more than once to believe it.

“this is my autograph…here in the songs that i sing, here in my cry and my laugh, here in the love that i bring. to be always with you…and you always with me.” (j.d.)

and each path now – in the simple times and in the fancy times – we’ll hold hands or link arms, we’ll dance, we’ll lead, we’ll follow.

and the path will always bring us home.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

EMBRACED NOW mixed media 48″x36″

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kenosha breck. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

it was a burger night. we had been out hiking for hours and needed something substantial to eat. the thing that hadn’t occurred to us – when we headed out to hike – was that it was still winter there – up in higher elevation, the trail tucked into the woods. it was some hard work – even with trekking poles – to stay upright on a very-snowy and mostly-icy hike. each step was calculated and careful. and it was ridiculously beautiful and exhilarating.

so it was a burger night.

we decided that – though, in all the times we have stayed in breckenridge, we have only eaten out once – we would go over to try kenosha breck – a steakhouse whose name combines our home and our fave-place. our intention was to order a burger-to-split and fries to-go.

but the bar – where we would place a to-go order – was in the back of the pub and the doors right adjacent were wide open to fresh air and setting sun and the mountains were visible past the outdoor dining tables and umbrellas and the bartender was super friendly and it wasn’t crowded and there were two stools at the end of the bar closest to the outdoors….so….we stayed. (and the earth shook a little – acknowledging this very unusual decision to eat-out….)

we sat and shared a glass of wine, reviewing our what-felt-treacherous hike and the gorgeous day, the beautiful days preceding it. we chatted with the bartender. we gazed out the open doors, staring at the mountains we would immediately miss when we left the next day. we lingered.

some days a burger and fries and a little wine are the perfect way to end the day. nothing fancy. just a simple meal on a couple stools in a mountain town.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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a tulip in the yard. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

we don’t officially compost. but the side of the garage (it used to be the back, but there is a fence there now) is a place of great organic matter. decaying leaves, wilted lettuce and spinach, bits of broccoli or parsley for the possum, shriveling blueberries for the chipmunks.

i walked past and it caught my attention.

a volunteer tulip.

years ago i planted a couple hundred tulip and daffodil bulbs. the squirrels – who are intrepid at our house – dug them all up. every last one of them. i had zero tulips, zero daffodils. i haven’t tried again because the squirrels would giggle and smirk, just waiting for me to bring my tired joints back into the house after planting. then they would make short order of digging or, in a slight (tormenting) nod to letting me think i might actually have bulbed flowers one day, planning to unearth them at a later date.

needless to say, we don’t have tulips or daffodils in our yard.

but here was this beautiful tulip! in all its glory, growing out of the mound next to the garage.

i’m thinking some squirrel – with eyes bigger than its belly – had one too many bulbs. it laid it down or dropped it. maybe it was on purpose. maybe it is a thank-you for all the birdseed it had been scrounging out of our birdfeeder. maybe a thank-you for all the goodies at the side of the garage through the years. maybe gratitude for the squirrel highways above our house or a gesture for the acorn holes scattered throughout our grass. or maybe it just simply forgot about it. either way, we will work around this beauty.

happy that it’s there, i’m a little bit gleeful that i finally – at long last – have a tulip in the yard.

*****

DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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not normal. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

“starlight. starbright. first star i see tonight. i wish i may, i wish i might, have this wish i wish tonight.”

he said, “you’re not normal. you two are not normal.”

he didn’t mean it in a mean way. in fact, he quickly explained it was a compliment. he elaborated that it was his way of saying that we lead with creativity and artistry and that just isn’t a normal thing, that we don’t necessarily give credence to how naturally that is a part of who we are, how we move in the world, what we do with our time.

because our success is not measured like the success of others, it’s a little hard to take in this compliment. the success of our imperative is measured in resonance with others, in touching hearts, in poking thoughts, in giving space. the success of others is measured in salaries and annuities and perks and material goods. there is a vast disparity between the payroll of the artist and the payroll of the white-collar-ed.

at the queen tribute band concert we attended there was a woman in the next row who held an intense conversation during intermission. she spoke about their son who had chosen a different route – not to go to college – and who was succeeding mightily nonetheless. she spoke about how others looked disparagingly upon him, but how she supported his choices. the most telling thing she said was, “at least in life he isn’t doing a job he hates.” i did a double-take. the tone of her voice, the look on her face showed she was underplaying her own feelings. she is clearly doing a job she hates. for the long haul.

we’ve all had jobs we hated. it’s a fact of life. bills need to be paid, obligations need to be met and we are responsible people.

we talked about this on the way home from the concert. eh…who am i kidding? we talk about this all the time.

our life is different than most anyone else’s we know. our dreams are maybe a little different too.

we immerse in moments that remind us of the good fortune of merely breathing. we flail in moments that remind us we are not “that kind” of normal. but seeing stars in dried flowers and hearts in verdant underbrush and angel wings in clouds and appreciating the sunshine on the quilt, the old birdhouse on the mantel, the tiny cairns on our shelves, the harmonic overtones in the air all remind us.

i wish i may, i wish i might, have the wish i wish tonight…

to not worry. to know that this work that we do in the world is valued. to feel some of the same ‘normal’ as most of the people around us.

but if i have to worry and wonder and feel ‘not normal’ to be the artist i am, to maybe have something i do resonate with someone else, touch them, make them think, change them a tiny bit, give them a little space of peace, then i’ll take it. because i don’t hate what i do.

because i love doing what i do.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

SEE AN OWL mixed media 24″x48″

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on different ground. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

“it is impossible to ever compare two people because each stands on such different ground.” (john o’donohue)

breck has leafed. we are watching with admiration and anticipation. last year, our tiny aspen shot up in height, growing, growing, higher, higher, until it was awkwardly tall with all branches on the lower trunk and this spindly beanstalk heading skyward, full of oddly-sized leaves.

we wonder about this year. but we hesitate to compare it to other aspens – the ones in woods that grow in stands and connect-connect underground to vast quantities of aspen-relatives.

our breck is alone out there. the only aspen in our yard, though we won’t know for some time if there are others sprouting up in the aspen regeneration way, sharing a root structure, genetically identical trees waiting to surprise us with a grove. breck stands on different ground – on midwest soil not the soil of the high mountains. its experience is different from the forested side of the mountain on the ditch trail in colorado or lakeside in dory.

though i have successes and joys in my life, i recognize that you do as well. though i have difficulties in my life, i recognize that you do as well. though i have challenges and disappointments, i recognize that you do as well. i stand on different ground. you stand on different ground.

we have watched breck struggle and we have watched it flourish. we cheer it on, always aware that it is out of its mountain-element, always aware it is one-of-a-kind here, always aware it is steadfastly soaking up the sun and the rain and holding on during wisconsin winters and winds from the west.

no matter the size of its leaves or the distribution of branches, the height it achieves or the root system clones it produces, breck stands on different ground and it is beautiful.

“if you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.” (desiderata – max ehrmann)

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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tough socks. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

i just heard about darn tough hiking socks. they are known for their comfort, durability and fit. they wick moisture and are anti-blister. these are all important features in a hiking sock. heck, they are important features in living life.

the river rises and falls. we have seen it spilling way across the trail, with trees looking like they are standing in a bayou, water so stretched out it looks less like a river than a lake. we have seen it pulled way back, the level low, the riverbed exposed, turtles with no place to hide. it surprises us to arrive and see it so different from the last time. and it doesn’t surprise us.

everything is in flux. everything. and i suppose i am surprised and i am not surprised.

it all rises and falls. it spills over and recedes. life gives and takes. successes are jubilant, disappointments are despairing. relationships flourish and barely hold on…connection replaced by disconnect replaced by connection. well-being is momentary. we are secure, we are imperiled. we are flush with excitement and trembling with dread. such a dichotomy, this living thing.

it reminds me – once again – of an interview i heard with an elderly woman of 95. she was asked how she managed to stay vital and engaged for so long, to stay robustly healthy and remarkably positive. she just gracefully rode the ebbs and flows, surfing the river-bayou-trickle and its continual changes. she answered, “i take nothing personally.”

they must have modeled the socks after her. comfort, durability, fit, moisture-wicking and anti-blister.

i need me some of those socks.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

IN PRAYER mixed media 67″x64″

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of being here. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

“may you awaken to the mystery of being here.” (a blessing for presence – john o’donohue)

when my big brother died i had trouble wrapping my head around his not-being-here. at the time i was an adult, pregnant with my second child and was personally acquainted with previous loss – i had lost all my grandparents along the way. but there was something i couldn’t put my finger on, something that was so perplexing and mind-warping for me that it sat with me and sat with me and, even now, there are times i ponder it. my big universe query was: wondering how the world could go on if he could no longer feel it.

i still don’t know the answer. i do know that it just does. the universe keeps keeping-on, despite who is present – in any of its dimensions.

in the decades now that have passed since my beloved brother died, i’ve also lost my sweet momma and poppo, other relatives, dear friends. in exquisite moments of reassurance, i have experienced them – from time to time – reaching from the other side. they’re right here, i think, just over there. though i wish i could summon them when i need them, that’s not how it works. and so i just glory in the moments when they happen and try to remember.

in those very moments – and any other, really – i think about what wisdoms they might share with me from that other side, from the Next place, the Next time.

i’m pretty sure they’d agree with john o’odonohue. they might tell me, as i sit in the adirondack chair on the sun-showered patio with my husband and dog, sipping a glass of wine and watching the grass grow, “just being there should be enough.”

they might whisper to me to slow down.

they might remind me of the sacredness of each minute.

they might cajole me from my angsts. in turn, they might admonish me to let go of ludicrous overplanning.

they might point out the new buds on the aspen, the volunteer daylilies in the garden, the black-capped chickadees and house sparrows dancing by the feeder, the shadows playing across our field of vision in this small sanctuary we love.

they might tap me on the shoulder and repeat a few more words of john o’donohue’s, “enter the quiet immensity of your own presence.”

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

MEDITATION mixed media 48″x48″

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

it’s not-this, not-that. neti, neti. a period of duality.

we are not in winter. we are not in spring. though calendars will challenge that, the meteorological fallout of not-this-not-that surrounds us. and we all learn to live in duality. dress in layers. be prepared for anything.

most northern states stake claim to some iteration of the saying, “if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes and it’ll change.” so littlebabyscion has a backseat laden with vests and jackets; we are always ready for whatever weather shifts our way.

in the meanwhile, we live on the cusp.

we hiked during the eclipse. with the exception of two or three others who passed us, we were completely alone.

though we went to several places to attempt purchasing eclipse glasses, we were too late, and we didn’t have protective eyewear. it was remarkable that so many glasses were sold out at so many places and that meant that so many people were planning on watching this extraordinary event, setting aside portions of their day to view and to celebrate.

so we did not look up. instead, we aimed the camera at the sky and snapped photos. because we didn’t research ahead – which is highly unusual for us – we also didn’t realize we needed these glasses – or a filter – to capture the essence of the eclipse in a photograph with our iphones.

but it doesn’t matter. because we felt it.

the deer must have known. they lingered trailside, aware of our presence, yet not fleeing. we watched each other – in this time of not-this-not-that, not-light-not-dark – they seemed, oddly – for usually they run gracefully away, accepting of us.

at exactly 2:08 – the moment when the eclipse was at peak in our area – the light around us changed. everything took on a surreal, somewhat golden glow, intensifying color around us. we stood still and looked around, certain, even though our photographs were belying the truth, that we were in the moment. the birds were loud, the heron flew above us. the wind changed. and then, it was time, suspended.

we hiked back to the trailhead, knowing that light had been filtered through dark. hopefully, a time of renewal. maybe a time of shedding old energy. i wondered how the world would feel if we lived in that moment at all times. not in the not-this, not-that, but in new light, each and every day.

i suppose we should be as astounded by the sunrise each day. we should be astonished at the play of dark into light. we should be gobsmacked by the new beginning of dawn.

because, really, everywhere around us there are miracles of transformation. and we are always on the cusp of everything beautiful, were we to just stop, were we to just look, to just recognize it. to live in the eclipse.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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

the magic dots showed up. it is a happy day to wake up and see them.

with just the right angle of the sun and just the right angle of the miniblinds across the room on the east side windows of the bedroom, they sometimes – but not all the time – appear.

it is a little bit like fairy dust, the twinkle at the end of a magic wand, floating bubbles, glimpses of angel wings. and what could possibly not be good about all that?!

i have awakened in this room most of the 35 years i have lived here, save for bedroom rebuild/remodeling time and other moments here and there. with five windows, there is no shortage of light. it is bright and, though – like rooms in old houses – not big, it is airy.

it is spirit-lifting to wake up and see them…these magic dots dancing on the wall. and, during a time that is testing my spirit in more ways than i care to think about, i am grateful for the dots.

they poke at me, prodding me with mary oliver urgency – “what do you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” “eh??” they add. “well?” they insist.

they know – these magic dots – that there is much to be done. they know there is much to work through, to see to the other end, to process.

but seeing them reminds me to carry them with me. to not forget the fairy dust, the magic, the bubbles, wings in the middle of it all. to hold it all more lightly.

for, like, the magic dots, it will all disappear as the sun rises and the rays tilt in a different angle. with one turn of the miniblinds, they will be gone.

but in the meanwhile, they invite me to dance with them.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

WINGED mixed media 24″x20″

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friendly with bears. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

the trees out front and across the street often filter the sunlight, depending on the angle of the sun. we are on the north side of the street and so, we have a southern exposure. gazing outside at the sun filtering through the limbs doesn’t always give me an accurate picture of what it’s like out. i am given to stepping out on the front step to see what it really feels like out there, to see what it’s really like, to see the real.

she said, “you can’t trust people just because of the mask they are wearing.” and she’s right. the masks – the titles – we make assumptions that don’t really depict the person. we grant pedestals upon which others have placed people wearing the masks, donning the costume, assuming the title, but all the while betraying authenticity. our view of others is filtered through their masks, whatever it is they want us to see. the sun through the limbs.

it all somehow makes me think of the song “return to pooh corner”, the hundred acre wood, the world of pooh and piglet. maybe it’s a yearning for that sort of innocence, that sort of blissful good intention. we didn’t wonder about winnie the pooh’s agenda or piglet’s loyalty. they were – clearly- a bear and a pig and they spoke to truth. winnie the pooh says, “i’m never afraid with you.” no filters.

i suppose that truth – sans filters – is like the hundred acre wood – the forest, though. like the sun, it’s always there – always available. a.a. milne states, “but of course, it isn’t really good-bye, because the forest will always be there…and anybody who is friendly with bears can find it.”

you just have to be friendly with bears.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

SURRENDER NOW mixed media 24″x24″

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