and the deadened stalks of underbrush began to show signs of life. instead of the greys and browns of winter, its lack of light and its deep shadows, the sun has drawn out buds of newness and there is a slight glow of green in the woods.
soon, that green glow will grow and it will push out all the shadows of what had been, of the eradication that had happened in the preserve, of the fires and the heavy equipment’s tearing and grinding of buckthorn and other invasives. soon, the green glow will reflect back the warmth of the sunlight of spring and regrowth and we will walk in places that are not heavy with the press of toxic plants or trees. soon, the green glow on stems of underbrush, on trunked branches of trees will distinguish goodness from that which chokes out life.
walking – in the woods – last summer, last fall, early winter – it was hard to imagine – almost impossible – to really grok – that the beauty of the underbrush and the forest was being overrun by that which would utterly ruin it.
walking now – in the woods – in late winter/early spring – still with its juxtaposition of the echoes of the dark and the light, new vegetation and old chokemonsters, goodness and destruction – it’s ridiculously easy to see the difference.
and, just like thistles, prickly people tend to stick together.âat least that’s been my experience.â
one wonders what the point of thistles are in the world.âwhat good might they do?âthe nectar and pollen are of nutritional value to pollinators; the seeds are feed for songbirds.âbut ouch!âthe packaging is a bit rough.
sandspurs were a way of life in florida.âany time you stood on the swale of the road you would expect to encounter them.âthey were present on the coast of hilton head too, sticking to the bottom of your flipflops as you walked to the water’s edge.âwe encounter them on the trail – particularly if you step off, into the underbrush.âsandspurs, like thistles, are unwelcome hitchhikers on socks and the bottom hemline of jeans, backpacks you laid down, beachtowels.âthey are about as prickly as thistles – and about as nasty.
i suppose if people were to assign flora to our personalities, none of us would prefer to be “thistle” or “sandspur”.âi’m thinking more along the line of peony or daisy, sunflower or orchid or even cattail or meadow grass.âdefinitely not thistle.âdefinitely not sandspur.
and yet, there are people – out there – who seem to relish their prickliness.âmaybe it’s to stave off other people.âmaybe it’s a protective shield of some sort.âmaybe it’s the result of others’ prickliness to them.âor maybe it’s the truth – they are just damn prickly.â
and, as we know, thistles attract thistles.ânasty attracts nasty.âmean attracts mean.âsandspur and thistle posses can be powerful, keeping out – repelling – anything softer, anything into which they can sink those stickers.
each day – as we continually learn of the challenges of others – i think that there is not enough time to be prickly, not enough time to be nasty like that, not enough time to be unkind, not enough time to be uncaring.âwe barely have enough time to be loving, to be kind, to care about those around us, to have compassion for those we don’t know.â
and despite the many advantages of the thistle, the many advantages of the sandspur, i’m thinking that an outer shell that may or not may belie inner goodness is kind of a waste of precious time.âit may be good for the underbrush, good for the meadow, but it’s not so good for humankind.
let’s not be thistles.
*****
BOUNDARIES from RIGHT NOW Šī¸ 2010 kerri sherwood
it can’t be easy to be the lone tree in a big, big farmfield.âthe wind will batter you.âthe sun will parch you.âthe snow and ice will pile next to your trunk and bend your limbs down low.âthe rain will pummel you.âyou will be tested and you must be steadfast.âyour very presence may be questioned; it would be easier to plow straight lines than to plow around you.â
but consider this:âthe birds will flock to you.âany creatures needing shade or shelter will curl up under your canopy.âyou will exhale clean oxygen.âand wildflowers and grasses will grow at your base.âyou will interrupt the horizon line with your very beautiful tree shape.âyou will give visual perspective to the vast fields.
and so you stand there – alone.âready to greet the next day and the next.âdespite it all.â
you know it would be easier if there were other trees standing with you – perhaps a simple stand of trees or maybe a small woods or forest.âyou know it would be easier if there were even just one other bush or plant holding vigil with you in the big field.âyou know it would be easier if the west winds would not assail you, you with nothing to block their assault.
and even if the elements push on you, if the farmer ponders your value, if the aloneness feels void of hope, you keep standing.â
because you know that you are a tree and that your truth matters and that your presence counts.
i would be remiss if i said this sign wouldn’t come in handy sometimes.âwe all need this reminder from time to time.âbeing a turd covers a lot of ground – it’s an umbrella-heading for a lot of bad behavior.âand it would make a really good personal commandment, if we all were to have those (and actually pay attention to this one in particular).â
googling this phrase, i can see that there are plenty of “don’t-be-a”s for sale.âi just hadn’t run into this one before.â
it’s not like we don’t run into sayings – bits o’ wisdom – inspirational messages – funny quips – like, everywhere.âyou can’t avoid them.âthey are on people’s facebook pages, on instagram, on social media platforms across the board.âthey are on office walls, bathroom mirrors, over-the-highway signs, in gift boutiques, on daily calendars.âeverywhere.âand sometimes they are exactly what you needed to see, precisely what you needed to read – some sort of uplifting gift of a few words.â
other times, they make you roll your eyes.âit all depends on where they are posted, who has posted them, when they are posted.âit’s the irony of it, after all.âwe can all point to a message posted by an entity that just screams hypocrisy (or a cauldron of other nouns with colorful descriptor adjectives).âin those moments, it would seem no words would be better than words, nothing would be better than something.âthat posting some spouting antithesis of how something/somebody actually is would be a ruthless attempt at obfuscating their real essence, their real agenda.â
“but it’s just a positive message,” you argue, thinking i am – perhaps – being a turd about this.
well, perhaps so.â
but – as i wander about my days and you wander about yours – as we encounter wonderful optimistic messages wherever our journeys take us – online or in real life – i would suspect that in an overarching way – gearing down – in a message to laud it over many, many other messages – you might agree: that the best message that could be put out there – in every place, on every wall, in everyone’s heart – the one overall message that could maybe change lives (?!!!) would be:
it was the first time in years – literally years – since we had ordered chinese food.âway back before the pandemic we stopped ordering as soy sauce used in cooking my favorite fried rice contains gluten.âwe’ve purchased tamari for use at home – sans gluten – but you can’t expect a chinese restaurant to use this.âbut then, the up-north gang started to talk about panda – one of the restaurants in town – and i was havin’ a hankerin’ for their amazing fried rice and eggrolls.â(i don’t require complicated foods to be extraordinarily happy!)
and so, we decided to forego the gluten-worry and we ordered.âwe were in fried-rice-heaven.â truth be told, we have purchased frozen fried rice from trader joe’s, added some more veggies and wok-ed it all up with tamari, which was pretty good.âbut…that container of fried rice and that little wax paper bag with our eggrolls after placing our order on the phone and jaunting over to pick it up – it inspired joy!!!
and then, there’s the fortune cookie.âit’s funny these days – the back of the fortune cookie has an ad from jockey (the international headquarters is in this town), so you can’t get away from retail marketing even in your fortune cookie.ânevertheless, this time we wished to pay attention to the cookie and its words of ancient wisdom.â
“your to-do list for tomorrow: do absolutely nothing.”
and so we did.âwe spent the next day facetiming with our daughter while she opened her christmas presents.âwe went antiquing and immersed in treasures and ideas.âwe hung out with dogdog and had happy hour and made homemade soup.âwe were fortunate and our day was filled with great fortune.âwe did nothing that even resembled tedium or hard work.âi mean, it’s a fortune cookie!âyou have to pay attention!
it’s now under a magnet on our refrigerator.âbut the thing is – we have already cashed in on the magic.âwe used up the fortune.â
i wondered if that was it?âwas it spent?âover?âno longer our fortune?
and so, i googled it.
and found this:
“a fortune from a cookie typically lasts as long as you assign meaning to it or find it relevant. the lifespan of a fortune cookie’s message is subjective and varies from person to person.”(the ever-reliable knowledge factoid site – quora.com)
i’m thinking we will leave it up there on the fridge for a spell (or whatever the lifespan of this fortune cookie fortune might be).âthat way, we can glance over and “assign it meaning” any day we want!
viriginia creeper…after the leaves have fallen. blue berries. it’s also called woodbine. and the instant that david told me that, i was back in northport.
for on the corner of woodbine avenue and main street sits skippers pub. it’s just on the other side of main from the park and the gazebo and the harbor boatslips and that place – at the end of the dock – where i have sat for hours and listened to the clanking of metal-rigged sails in the moonlight. it’s visceral.
some of the berries are gone now – only a few days since i took this picture. but as the temperatures drop, the critters have been busy, i suppose. and i hope that the woodbine berries help them prepare and stoke up.
in daydreams, i go back to skippers. sit at the bar and talk with crunch about fishing or diving or life, eat lobster bisque and baked clams, maybe sip a beer (back in the day). i go back when i was 18 or just barely 19; those earlier times were different than later.
a bunch of years back, david and i were on the island and we spent time walking around northport, spent time on the docks, spent time at skippers. we sat at the bar and ate baked clams and buffalo calamari. he sipped a guiness and i had a glass of wine. it was a little bit of heaven. i pointed out the window and, as he looked out, i knew he was looking out the same lettered window i had gazed out of decades ago. the view was a little changed – both from inside and out – of me.
but i could feel the energy of those times past and i could feel the bits of goodness that still floated about from happy moments spent there. skippers will always be a place of refuge in my mind – not because it was a pub – but because it was a place of joy, a place of innocence, of fun and friendship and tales of fishing and diving.
there will always be places we internally feel good about and, of course, the complete opposite – places that are inherently negative, that drudge up things toxic or painful. each of us can likely rattle off a few examples of each category.
skippers – on the corner of woodbine and main – will remain one of the good ones.
and now, each time i pass our dear westneighbors’ fence along our driveway and see the woodbine curling and stretching and growing on the wooden posts, i will likely smile and think of baked clams and lobster bisque and the long island when i was 18.
it doesn’t take much to get my attention. the drops of water. the juxtaposition of muted color. the use of the add-9 in a 1-3-5 chord. the tension that is created between that ninth and the tonic of the triad, begging for release, suspended to evoke emotion.
if we all spent time in the beautiful details of things, perhaps there would be little time for disagreement, little time for division, little time to perpetuate negativity. i suppose this all sounds a bit idealistic, maybe even pollyanna-ish.
when i was in high school, one of my best friends – marc – used to poke fun at me. he’d point out that i was all about sunrises, rainbows, bubbles. we’d argue the merits of musicians – me defending john denver, him defending bob dylan. i was an innocent back then, living in a family that was almost all a “generation” older, comparatively speaking. while other families were watching the wonderful world of disney and episodes of dark shadows, mine was watching doris day, rock hudson, debbie reynolds movies and episodes of gidget and hogan’s heroes and petticoat junction. my parents weren’t in front of the tv when saturdaynight live started in 1975 and the radio in the kitchen played wgsm from huntington, which didn’t include led zeppelin or aerosmith in their line-up. the record player in the living room spun robert goulet and jim nabors, herb alpert and the tijuana brass. my sweet momma did not dance to janis ian or carole king or joni mitchell or aretha franklin. my dad whistled all the time, but never a john lennon song or billy joel or david bowie. i wasn’t so much pop-culture-up-to-date-informed.
innocence has a way of exiting the building and sometimes this is by more profound circumstances than others. i’m in that second category.
but i still look back – to before – and think about the sunrises, rainbows and bubbles of that period of my life. sometimes somewhat wistfully.
and as i pass the mauve and olive leaves on the trail, noticing the tiny droplets of dew or the morning rain – still visible, i realize that somewhere in there, the unwavering john denver fan, the jonathan livingston seagull fan, the doris-day-rock-hudson-debbie-reynolds fan still exists. i can see her waving from other there. she stops me on the trail and reminds me. of goodness and beauty. and of sunrises, rainbows and bubbles.
to sit at a bistro table – to eat a meal, to sip wine, to talk and linger – such a simple pleasure, so rich, brimming with visions of sidewalk cafes and closely sharing time. we bring to any table the joy of being together, the gift of gathering. there is not much Lovely that a bistro table and wrought iron chairs doesn’t elicit for me.
what we bring to the table…this pause in our day…a sacred preparing of foods for those we care about. in those moments of frenetic movement, of too-busy-busy-ness, of emotional or physical overload, this pause – at the table – to slow down and relish taste – to breathe the air of another – to sate our hunger and stoke our energy – moments we so often rush through.
and so, i think maybe i will approach any table instead as if i am about to sit at a bistro table, about to hold time in a little bit of suspension to enjoy whatever the meal may be – simple or fancy – unadorned or with a beautiful table-setting. i’ll bring to the table my utter appreciation for sustenance, for those i am gathered with – even if alone – for the act of living. i’ll bring to the table my knowing that this ritual of goodness – to eat, to carry on, to experience hunger, to eat – is a privilege i have enjoyed my whole life – even when my hunger was bigger but my dinner was cornflakes. i’ll bring to the table gratitude for taste, for texture, for spice and organic, for the delicious.
and i’ll sit at the table acknowledging the very moments there. i’ll collect my table-sittings in my oeuvre of song and prose that will scatter someday into the galaxy. too often we forget we are merely blips in the compendium of the universe and each good moment that is ours is truly a gift of time, a wonder.
and so, i’ll bistro-table each meal.
*****
GOOD MOMENTS from THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY Šī¸ 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood
we were sitting on our infamous adirondack chairs on the patio. the sky was brilliant blue – much like in this photograph. so much was going on. we were taking a few-minutes-breather.
and suddenly, it was like tiny sparkles were landing on us – the tiniest raindrops we’d ever seen. one by one we’d sense them landing on bare arms. you could barely see them, barely feel them. but as they floated down they glittered like the eensiest dew drops in a sunrise ray, iridescent shimmers falling from the sky. it is hard to wrap words around this. but it was like being blessed by the universe, like minute stars touching us. grace. light. magic dust.
it’s not like we aren’t surrounded by these. glimmers. moments that radiate. moments that make you feel amazed to be alive. moments of joy or peace. they are – truly – everywhere. gentle touches of reassurance or comfort, reminders of bliss – out there. not magnificently large summits but micro moments in real living, real time, lingering in the air waiting for us to notice.
and when you notice…as a deliberate practice or an unanticipated surprise…the energy of your stardust quivers in goodness.
