facebook.com/kerrianddavid | reverse threading

May 6, 2019
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the blue notebook. [merely-a-thought monday]

a text from 20

my sweet momma was an optimist. growing up, she’d wake me up in the morning with a cheery, “good morning, merry sunshine” and she would happily start her day. she would jot everything on her desk calendar (the kind with the base, two metal rings and sheets for each day that were replenishable yearly.) for her, everything counted. she would write down all of it, in her personal shorthand. to read her calendars now is to see all parts of life – the magical parts and the painful aspects. but momma? she just had a way of listing to the magical side.

we drove down to florida nine to ten times in the last couple years of her life. we’d visit and laugh and listen to stories and catch her up on our life. she was in assisted living then so we would listen carefully if she mentioned something she clearly wanted from the home she and my dad had shared. her finnish wood carvings, a certain sweater, a jacket, a movie in the entertainment center…all things back home. we all worked to be sure she was surrounded by things that meant a lot to her.

one day momma started to recollect another of the rich stories she and my dad had experienced on their trip to europe decades earlier. she spoke of the brand new vw bug they ordered ahead and picked up in germany. she spoke of roadtripping for six weeks around the countryside. and she spoke of a red notebook in which she wrote down all her impressions, all their doings, all the adventures during their trip. she wrote of tender moments and of the simplest of pleasures. she wrote of what made that trip magical and painful challenges they had. she didn’t write of the grandiose or the impactful tourist spots. she wrote of what made that trip theirs and theirs alone, a deeply personal account. and as she spoke of it, you could feel the presence of my dad by her side. these were cherished stories and precious time she spent with her beloved husband. clearly, she pined for this notebook – written memories of that magic.

we went back home that evening to my parent’s house with a mission – find the red notebook. we started in the office, scouring the desk and the closet, going through bins and boxes, our eyes searching for a red spiral. defeated in the office, we moved on. every nook. every cranny. we opened every bin and box in the house, rifling through, trying to find it.

we moved on to the garage. tall filing cabinets stood against the wall (for basements are somewhat inconceivable in florida). i started pulling out drawers. david headed for the stacks of plastic bins, piled in another part of the garage.

we kept at it. determined, but losing some hope.

david opened the last plastic bin, the one on the very bottom of the piles. he shuffled through the papers in the top; his eyes fell on a brochure. a travel brochure. from europe. his pulse racing, he continued to dig through the bin.

and then he saw it. a BLUE spiral notebook. on the front was penned the word EUROPE.

the last time i saw my momma – ever – was the very next morning. when we left her, she was clutching the blue notebook to her chest, tears in her eyes.

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

a sweet momma inspired project

May 3, 2019
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part of the wind. [k.s. friday]

with the sun not yet up over the farmlands, the hot air balloon lifted. we slowly sailed over fields and stands of trees, watching the world wake up. as the sun rose over the horizon, we could hear what was going on below us. we weren’t that high up and any conversation in backyards and barns, on patios and decks or driveways was easy to hear. we weren’t intentionally eavesdropping; you just can’t help but hear clearly up there in the wind. it’s an amazing vantage point floating low in the sky, sharing the sunrise with the earth, an endless horizon. a little wary, i had asked the pilot if he had any anti-motion apothecary suggestions. he responded by telling me that none are needed, that you are “part of the wind.” we were. we are. part of the wind.

when we go antiquing and wander around in vast collections of other people’s lives, we pass by paintings on the walls and in stacks against cabinets, displayed beautifully and piled haphazardly. we stand in front of bins full of records and 45’s, stacks of CDs not even alphabetized, the vinyl and polycarbonate/aluminum blend all beckoning us to sort through and remember songs or moments in time. and we, artists of the canvas and of song, draw in our breath. it’s an amazing vantage point floating here in time, sharing this day with the earth, contemplating.

and we wonder if this is where all of our paintings and cds will end up one day…in an antique shop where browsers will pass by, exclaiming, “wow! look at all those paintings!” or “wow! look at all those cds!” we wonder if they will stop, page through, recognize a track or two, an image or two, or if they will be curious or spellbound and buy something to bring home. perhaps we will remain part of the stacks, the bins, ever-growing, the horizon endless.

either way, we are part of the wind.

download BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL on iTUNES or CDBaby

read DAVID’S thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

PART OF THE WIND from BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL ©️ 1996 kerri sherwood

May 2, 2019
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west of the i. [d.r. thursday]

one of the cool things about living in kenosha is the ability to easily get to two major cities – milwaukee and chicago. we drive up to milwaukee to putter around, go to the art museum, walk along the river in the third ward, go to antique shoppes. we usually take the train to chicago, driving south a couple towns for more frequent schedule choices. we walk the streets of the city, find places for coffee or glasses of wine, attend national geographic live events or a play or concert, visit with friends.

but we are actually less city people than we are outdoors people. and so, more often, we will head out – west of the i – and take a drive out in the county. in next-to-nothing we are surrounded by farmland, breathing in the scent of rich dirt in fields that are turned over for planting, some yielding early croplings*.

in also next-to-nothing time, david whips out his sketchbook and pencils to capture the really gorgeous patterns in these fields of green. (these words make me think of the stunningly beautiful song fields of gold. if you haven’t ever heard it, please take a few minutes right now and click HERE. you will be glad you did.)

just a sketch, but a reminder of the moments we passed these fields, talking or listening to music, singing along or simply silence in the car. a breath of fresh air, a drive to rejuvenate, maybe a hike on a trail to restore us – all west of the i.

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

browse david’s gallery – a breath of fresh air, a few moments to rejuvenate or restore you

©️ 2019 david robinson & kerri sherwood

*yes. technically, ‘croplings’ is not a word. but i could not resist it. this stems from my love of the word ‘seedlings’.

May 1, 2019
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a few warts. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

a burl on a tree is caused by the tree undergoing some form of stress. indeed, if this were true for humans, we would be loaded with burls. instead, our burls are inner-burls. they don’t generally manifest as growths on the outside or present as small or large bark-covered lumpy warts. instead, our worry makes us lose sleep, have intestinal issues and headaches. it makes us eat too much, pour the glass of wine a bit too early, seek medicinal solutions or drugged numbing. it makes us argue and lash out, insist on our own way, slam doors both figurative and literal. it causes sickness, physical exhaustion, loss of relationship or work or time in our lives. we become afraid to share our burls with the ‘outside’, scarcely making headway, fearful of the opinion of others, confused by the wart in our lives.

we should be like trees. the burls cover with bark, insulating from the outside yet evident to the outside. they grow in response to the stress of disease or injury or insects, but a tree may continue to live with these burls indefinitely. actually removing the burl exposes the tree to infection. the burl wood is prized, with swirling grain patterns. often, burls are harvested (both legally and illegally), with stunning furniture and wooden bowls the goal of burl-wood-turners. these trees stand tall and mighty, growing from seedlings, co-existing with disease, injury, insects and, even, together with trees more beautiful sans burls. they wear their wrinkled protuberances with grace. they don’t rid themselves of the evidence of life amid stressors, seeking botox to hide irregularities and minimize affirmation of living. instead they continue on, growing and growing and growing – despite a few warts.

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

April 30, 2019
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peel back the layers. [two artists tuesday]

“don’t judge a book by its cover,” my sweet momma used to say. i’m missing her today as i write this post for tomorrow. four years ago today she left this good earth and i could feel it tilt on its axis, trying vainly to readjust. she was generous when it came to people. she saw past what was on the outside; she sought to see what was inside.

the rough exterior we sometimes see on the outside of people is quite often a guise. we all know someone we believed to be gruff, but turned out to be quite the mush, once you were able to peel back the protective layers. we believe we know what someone else thinks or feels, but we are actually unable to physically pare back those visible and invisible outer layers, the extrinsic stuff, to get to the raw of their heart, to feel their actual worries or concerns or fears.

we each have our bark-masks, carefully designed for the venue or situation within which we find ourselves. we choose what to share with others, rarely brave enough to shed all that outer bark. for there have been times when you have peeled back the layers, revealed truths in confidence, perhaps looking for wisdom or common ground, and have been torturously walloped with judgement or scorn. it becomes much harder to allow the next shared peel.

it takes courage to BE who you really are with others. it takes courage to meet on common ground. we fear the gruff outermost skin, we are afraid of what we see and don’t understand. we may not realize someone else feels that same fear.

but there are cracks in the bark; there are fissures in the icy exterior. the tree may be shedding, the trunk expanding, growth waiting in the wings. allowing for cracks, fissures, reaching toward and not away – those can be the gps to another’s heart. it’s not always what it looks like. growth is waiting. because, you know, you can’t judge a book by its cover.

read DAVID’S thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

April 29, 2019
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“the first dandelion!” [merely-a-thought monday]

one of the sure signs of spring’s imminent arrival in our town is when boats start populating the harbor again. big shrink-wrap is removed from cabin cruisers, sailboats and yachts of all sizes and the slips start to fill up, slowly at first and then with abandon.

it was with much glee that, on our hike through the trails in a local forest preserve, i spotted it and called out, “the first dandelion!” i’m aware that not many people get as excited about dandelions as i do, but, for me, this harbinger of spring – along with gentle beauties like lilacs and tulips and daffodils – is cause for celebration. it conjures up images of cups of dandelions in water on my counter, having gone from little-kid-fists to my hands. it makes me think of decades ago, sitting cross-legged in the grass, making necklace chains out of clover. it brings the hope of a new season, the ever-more-constancy of sun and warmth, the season of flip-flops approaching.

with so much uncertainty on the horizon, the drone of winter’s end is taxing. we yearn for a blanket of warm sun, a chance to raise our faces from worry to face the sky, to breathe freshly mown grass, to put our hands in the dirt, cleaning away the debris of the harder times, perhaps preparing to plant.

but this is wisconsin and this is life and nothing is really static. life is fluid as is weather. four days after we celebrated “the first dandelion!” we drove home through a snowstorm, blowing, wet snow covering the courageous pioneers of spring. the thing i try to remember, as the grasp of winter holds tight the reins of this new season, is that they are still there.

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

FISTFUL OF DANDELIONS – the CD single or download on iTUNES

CLICK ON THIS ^^TOTE BAG ^^ FOR FISTFUL OF DANDELIONS PRODUCTS

April 26, 2019
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adrift. [k.s. friday]

“from a visual place…adrift on long island sound late-night. from an emotional place…living in the gray.” (liner notes – blueprint for my soul, 1996)

the gray. it sounds dismal. but gray is not devoid of color. if you mix the three primary colors together – red, yellow and blue – and then add white, you will hone the gray of your choosing. if you have ever stood in front of color samples at home depot or menards you know that gray, itself, spans a full spectrum. so many choices. all gray. the only thing really pertinent about gray is that it isn’t just black and white. it swirls together every color of experience, every emotion, every laugh and every tear. it is not defined by distinct edges, but blurs one moment into the next.

the word ‘adrift’ sounds inactive. but, in this vast world, aren’t we pretty much adrift? we believe we are proactive; we act on things we believe in. and yet. we bounce off turbulent waves threatening to destroy us; we ride others into the beach. we sit in calm waters and we try to navigate the waters that toss us wildly. we make decisions in moments of incomplete information; we have successes, we have regrets. we are adrift in the gray.

in moments of sunshine on trails in the woods i feel less adrift and more centered, more clear. it’s the rest of the moments when i try my best to ‘go with the flow’. we are surrounded by unknowns, caught in many an eddy. we are uncertain, but we are all capable. we are held in glimmering gossamer silks of grace by a universe that is benevolent. adrift.

download on iTUNES or CDBaby

read DAVID’S thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

April 25, 2019
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face the sun. [d.r. thursday]

FACE THE SUN mixed media 18″ x 24″

we are a lot like babycat. we seek the sun.

we wait – impatiently – for the mornings we can sit outside against the house facing the sun with our coffee. we hike in our magical bristol woods and sit in the nature megaphone, out of the wind, facing the sun. we have sat on mountaintops facing the sun and on rocks beside the lake facing the sun. in canoes facing the sun and on pontoon boats facing the sun. at outdoor cafes facing the sun and squeezing into windowseats facing the sun. on the deck facing the sun and in the dirt of the trail facing the sun. on the beach facing the sun and by the pool facing the sun. we sit on adirondack chairs that we move around the yard facing the sun and we lay in the hammock that we also move around the yard facing the sun. we are the dr seusses of ‘facing the sun’ lingo.

to view this painting FACE THE SUN in the gallery, please click here

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

April 24, 2019
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pray for our nation. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

i am a sign-reader. whether i am driving or riding in the car, i read signs. billboards, people’s clever license plates, bumper stickers, storefronts, oh, and road signs. there are certain areas of the country where signs for attorneys are rampant. other areas tout strong religious beliefs. some signs are clever “buckle up next million miles” and some are deeply insightful “when there’s only one race and that’s mankind… love is in you.” because we adore both road trips and short drives, we are privy to signs galore. one of my pet peeves is to see blatant spelling or punctuation errors on billboards; it makes me rant for several minutes about editors and proof-reading and the propensity for people to ignore the amazing thing called the dictionary.

we took a drive the other day. it was after all the services of the week were over and we were unplugging. turning the car west we headed out in search of a new hiking trail. on our drive we passed this sign. PRAY FOR OUR NATION. no fancy font, no centered spacing, just four simple words. i don’t know how long that sign has been there. it’s not in the front yard of any religious building; it’s just there, in a small park-like setting. i thought, “no kidding.” it seems apt timing.

instead of reading the paper first thing everyday now, we are reading meditations. we are considering the mica moments of the day before, the mica moments to come. we are trying to be hopeful, trying to slough off pettiness and disagreement, trying to avoid those who are clearly toxic to themselves and others, trying to engage in positive ways, trying to spend time doing things that advance us as humans in a big world rather than mire us in stunted selfish plots to further polarize and make inequity even more profound.

PRAY FOR OUR NATION doesn’t just start with folding hands and closing eyes, as much as that may help. it also starts with reaching out hands, opening your eyes, listening, learning, believing that there is only one race and it is mankind.

buckle up. next million miles.

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

April 23, 2019
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“go away!” yikes. [two artists tuesday]

“GO AWAY” it reads. the sign on this front door is bracing. not just a polite “no soliciting” or even a rougher “no trespassing”, “GO AWAY” is kind of frightening. i don’t really like aggressive people…the kind of people who choose attack-mode first, before anything else. the kind of people who act like they are “communicating”, but are, indeed, just stoking the fire with toxic non-communicative venom. yikes. GO AWAY.

reading the news app on our phones each morning makes us think the words “GO AWAY” every day. certain folks, bullying and disrespectful, on all sides of the aisle, rungs of the ladder and regardless of their political leanings, need to tame their thinking and rhetoric. it’s bracing. yikes. GO AWAY.

the person revving their engine in the car behind you. they weave back and forth from one side of the lane to the other, flashing lights, putting their car into neutral, revving once again…all while you search for a place to safely pull over so that they might pass, despite the passing-zone you are driving in. their angry behavior is bracing. yikes. GO AWAY.

the problem with all of this is that making someone GO AWAY doesn’t really make them go away. it just nullifies the problem for a moment or two. it doesn’t render them less aggressive; it doesn’t enlighten them. it just makes you THINK they are gone. unless you hold the whole world in a restraining-order-pose, you will have to deal with aggressive people and their aggression. there must be a common place we can all share.

maybe we don’t really need signs that say “GO AWAY”. maybe we need signs that say “COME IN. LET’S TALK.”

read DAVID’S thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: facebook.com/kerrianddavid

part of the wind. [k.s. friday]

west of the i. [d.r. thursday]

a few warts. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

peel back the layers. [two artists tuesday]

“the first dandelion!” [merely-a-thought monday]

adrift. [k.s. friday]

face the sun. [d.r. thursday]

pray for our nation. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

“go away!” yikes. [two artists tuesday]

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