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first. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

there was little light. without power we had tealights and candles scattered about the house. a small ikea lantern my poppo gave me years ago lit the way to the bathroom. and i put fresh batteries in a few small flashlights. both of us – and our dogga – have had plenty of time in our old house that we can find our way around in the dark, so bright light wasn’t an imperative. heat – yes. bright light – not so much.

the far-reaching effects of the lack of power are striking. we were at a standstill in some dramatic ways. no power. no heat. no stove or oven. no internet. no home phone. no cable. no inside phone charging. a lot of waiting and not a lot of doing. pacing.

we sat at our little bistro table – with this candle – and talked. we spoke about people overcome by the ravages of war, people in crumbled cities destroyed by hatred, people trying to live in rubble in the dark, in the cold, in sickness, in hunger. we were silent as we both became overwhelmed. quite certain that we had more in this cut glass candle, we were downright appreciative for the promise of our power being restored at some point, even if that timeline didn’t fit our preferred plan.

we watched the shadows play off the wall and dance on the ceiling. i took photographs. we put a frozen baguette on the grill to thaw and heat up. we cut up cheese from the fridge, prepared a small charcuterie in a hobnail server. we made lemonade. it’s easier to make lemonade when you know that all will be well again.

i would imagine it’s nearly impossible to make lemonade when nothing will be well again. that kind of spirit, that kind of chutzpah, that kind of fortitude is hard to muster in desperate situations. we – once again – felt humbled by the destruction felt around the world, our own immediate problem less than a mere blip in comparison.

there are many lessons learned from perspective. much humility learned from knowledge. a realization of interconnectedness – we-are-all-brothers-and-sisters – learned from even the smallest degree of empathy. and the stunning acknowledgement that fighting, the subjugation of people all over the world, cruelty beyond compare continues on and on and on as we burn our candle.

it was early when we tucked in under an extra comforter. snowflake flannel sheets, two comforters and a handmade quilt – even with mighty cold house temperatures – were cozy and we fell asleep, exhausted and knowing the next day would bring both the hope of reconnected power and the beginning of the blizzard.

post-nightfall, standing in the living room – bathed in light – we looked at each other not sure what to do next.

but first – first we were grateful.

*****

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

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the stars and us. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

there are moments when it takes some extra energy to get out from underneath a warm sherpa throw blanket. it was dark. we had eaten dinner. the olympics were on. dogga was sleeping on the rug. we were snugged under the blanket, warm and cozy, tired after a long week. i could tell that neither of us was necessarily motivated to get up and go out.

but we did.

and, for that – the tinygiant bit of effort it took to move the blanket, put on boots, grab our coats and hats and gloves and keys – i am grateful.

one of the local parks was having an event friday night – a candlelit self-guided trail hike – to celebrate valentine’s day. it is one of our favorite local trails through the woods and so we had reserved tickets ahead of time. only….in the way that actuallygoing gets in the way of lazingaround….we had to buck up and go.

like i said, grateful.

we’d reserved the latest time slot, thinking there might be less people on the trail that way. we needed quiet, to be surrounded by familiar trees – even in silhouette – the inky sky above, stars twinkling.

we hiked it twice. the first time there were just a few other groups. the second time we were absolutely alone.

it was exquisite.

with just simple luminaria bags here and there showing the trail, we hiked along in the dark on a path we know oh-so-well in daylight. we’ve hiked it also as the sun sets, lingering and finishing just before dark. but this time…

we spoke a bit as we walked, but mostly listened to the sound of our boots crunching on what remained of the snow. it was the perfect end to our day and our week, and the perfect backdrop to the conversation we were having about d’s 65th birthday the next day.

he asked me how i felt when i turned 65 and i shared the myriad of feelings i had as that had approached.

mostly, i told him, i felt like it was freeing. i felt like i no longer had giant expectations or convoluted ideas of what success was. i had a different measure of achievement. i felt like it was easier to understand presence, being right where one is. i felt like some things – things that don’t really matter – just slipped away, like a silk scarf.

and, the thing i really realized was that i was just like the stars above us on that trail that very night: just a bit of dust that got to be, that had the good fortune of life, of time present on this earth.

the candlelit trail was the sweetest way to spend friday night. nothing extravagant, just the woods and snow, the stars and us.

sooo worth getting out from under the blanket.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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keeping on. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

spent. the at-least-ten-foot-tall sunflower by the library looks spent. but oh, no, it is not spent. the transience of its time – of time itself – is just the beginning of a new phase, a new purpose, a new cycle. its seeds perpetuate its enduring soul. it keeps on.

“i’ve spent the past fifteen hundred days working tirelessly toward a single goal – survival. and now that i’ve survived, i’m realizing i don’t know how to live.” (suleika jaouad)

and so, here in the little garden just outside our favored library in town, this sunflower is still in its glory. tall, stately, i still catch my breath to see it. alone, it towers above all else there.

today we will have irish stew and mashed potatoes for dinner. it is not a traditional big turkey extravaganza nor is it a gathering of many at our table on this day. but we two will sit – with candles and cloth napkins and steaming bowls and bread – and we will give thanks for each person in each of our phases who have helped us work toward survival, helped us with endurance, with purpose.

we will be grateful for the full table in our dining room just two weeks ago, our beloved children, with us. we will offer up thanks for the food we will eat, for each other, for cherished ones, for being together. we’ll likely chat about thanksgivings of our growing-up, tales of earlier grown-up thanksgivings, thanksgivings when – to their delight – our childrens’ dad did an early-morning turkey-dance with the turkey, thanksgivings when our parents did the traditional end-of-the-table carving.

and we’ll dream about thanksgivings to come when – hopefully – this nation will have come back to its senses, when it will lead with gratitude and appreciation for all its people and its wildly fantastic diversity. we’ll ponder when extended families might return to the holiday table together, in love and generosity, with compassion for each other and all the others, all schisms laid out forever to rest. we’ll wonder about the seeds of the soul of this day – thanksgiving – and the true honesty and heart behind the honest and heartfelt wish – “happy thanksgiving” – we’ve heard so many times this week before today.

we are reminded every day – by something or other – that we all don’t really know how to live. it goes beyond survival, beyond the giant yellow bloom on the ten foot tall stalk. it stands the transience of time and its soul of goodness endures, cycle after cycle.

it is not spent.

and we are grateful for another chance to keep on.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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who’s got time? [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

“life hack: stop trying to be cool. be nerdy and obsessive about the things you love. enthusiasm will get you farther than indifference.” (posted on barkersounds IG)

this could possibly be my new mantra. nerdy and obsessive and (possibly overly) enthusiastic.

indifference slays me. the whole aloof, apathetic, flippant thing. all that gets under my skin, which is particularly sensitive to all the stuff on the opposite end of the spectrum from nerdy, obsessive about the things you love, and enthusiastic.

so that might explain the excessive photographs of barney, the old piano in our backyard, losing keys and structure in each season, its patina dusty wood. it might explain the innumerable pictures of breck – in every season – its leaves – budding in early spring through its golden age in autumn. it might explain why i take a zillion photos and generally completely annoy my adult children with my wish to capture them on film (well, “film” so to speak).

my sweet momma was a person who was also pretty nerdy and obsessive about the things she loved and, most definitely, enthusiastic. her “wowee!!!” goes down in history as a word she owned, and each of us knows we are referring to our beaky when we use that word.

life is short. that becomes more and more apparent as the years go flying by. the age spots on breck’s leaves are like the age spots i find on my own person. everything is fluid and keeps changing and the youth of our budding – like our aspen’s – is fleeting.

i can see no reason to not be nerdy. i can see no reason not to be obsessive about the things i love. and – yes – i can see no reason not to be ridiculously enthusiastic.

i mean, who’s got time for anything else?

*****

GRATEFUL © 2004 kerri sherwood

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sweet potato sprouts. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

we are sweet potato fans. and it was in recent research we realized we had been storing our sweet potatoes incorrectly – in the fridge. no wonder they were going bad sooner than we expected. so we moved them (and the russets and the gold yukons and the vidalia onions and the garlic) to a hanging basket in the stairwell which seemed to exponentially lengthen the life of this store-bought produce.

and then there was this day.

david – laughing – said, “ya gotta go look at the sweet potato in the stairwell!”

to say that i was surprised was understating. hot pink shoots were growing out of our sweet potato…sweet raspberry-colored, tiny-leafed shoots of a plant…right there in the basket hanging over the stairs, over the bin with dogga treats, next to the angle-broom and the swiffer, adjacent to the bag-o-bags hook.

and a science experiment was born as, suddenly, we were farming sweet potato.

we put some good potting soil in a planter and – just guessing, with no research – we planted the entire sprouted sweet potato tuber in the dirt. we watered it and stood back.

now, we had no idea what to expect. we truly did feel like we were in junior high – with a science fair project report due in a few weeks.

instantly, i was back in ninth grade, typing my lab reports on thin erasable typing paper. i loved typing and used any excuse to type. my earth science teacher – everyone’s favorite – charlie – graded our lab reports on a check system. check, check-plus, check-plus-plus, check-minus. i pretty much always got a check-plus-plus because, well, that was the kind of diligent student i was. he never wrote any comments on my lab reports, which was disappointing, so i began to wonder if he was really reading them. i decided to experiment a bit. i started to include the words of nursery rhymes – randomly – in my lab reports. i kept getting check-plus or check-plus-plus and he never said a word, convincing me that any genius lab report i might have written had gone undetected. years later we crossed paths on some social media and i reached out, asking him if, perchance, he remembered me. his response was classic: “of course! you typed nursery rhymes in the middle of your lab reports. how could i forget you?” but i digress.

in just days our little sweet potato’s tiny leaves leafed out and it has begun a growth cycle that will force us to reckon with what to do next. we are considering a metal trough planter, but also recognize that there isn’t long enough for the sweet potatoes to develop into sweet potatoes. it is a conundrum. but a truly sweet (no pun intended) reminder of the amazing turns of life and growth and actualization.

in a time during which so much is grabbing at our attention, a country and people disappointing us beyond belief, more corruption than we can wrap our heads around, we are grateful for this hot pink attention-grabbing sweet potato slip.

“live life, my sweet potato,” my momma always told me. i think i feel some sprouts comin’ on.

*****

GRATEFUL © 2004 kerri sherwood

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an abundance. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

the leaves have not all fallen yet. looking out back, they are still clinging to the oaks, the maples. i gathered a few that had made it onto the deck…just bits of green, yellow, a little orange, red. they went on the dining room table under the gourd that had spent long sunshiny hours on the potting stand, wicking away its outer layer, stripped down to its mustard shell. we celebrated the simplicity and lit candles to showcase these small trinkets of fall.

our stock pot of irish guiness stew simmered for hours. we shared it with our son and his sweet boyfriend, sipping wine and dipping chunks of baguette into our bowls. it was a joy to be there – at that table together – on thanksgiving – and i was grateful in each moment.

i’m more and more aware of the tiniest showcases of miracles. from our quiet hikes on trail to listening to the wind resonate the tenor chimes in the dawn hours to walking about inside post some clearing-out and rearranging in our old house to times spent with others. in silence and in boisterous noise. an abundance.

the light shines. it radiates through. noticing it is not only our task, but it is our gift.

*****

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read DAVID’s thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

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things iconic. [kerri’s blog on flawed wednesday]

it’s kind of traditional for this group. our up-north gang is superb at pontoon-boating together. so it seemed like a given we would pontoon on lake powell.

we had spent a lot of time in the rented suburban, driving from one iconic national park to another, surfing the canyonlands of this country – kind of an overview of the wildly beautiful. the idea of being in a boat together was enticing, particularly magical in the middle of the desert.

it was completely different than long lake and bass lake – connecting lakes in northern wisconsin. with awe-inspiring rock formations lining the fingers of this lake, we cruised around – hours disappearing into what seemed mere minutes. stunning us around every corner.

to say that we were overwhelmed by all the intense beauty we saw on our trip is to not be able to put words to it. the incredible vistas were mind-numbingly vast, gorgeous, pride-inducing. not enough adjectives.

here we all were – good friends out in the southwest. we had spoken about this trip for quite some time. some serious health events got in the way, so actually being there was an absolute celebration of life – you could not help but feel grateful not only for everything we were seeing, but grateful that we were able to see it all – together.

this america – with sea-to-shining-sea natural gifts – was the america of which we were proud. this america – that encouraged us to explore, to take to the road, to travel, to have limitless opportunity – was the america of which we were proud. this america – and this was the bottom line for our trip together – that had access to excellent health care which helped in the serious life events, that made it possible for us to stand on the edges of these canyons – was the america of which we were proud. this america – teeming with tourists and languages we didn’t understand – was the america of which we were proud. this america – with so much diversity, so much to learn, to see, to experience – was the america of which we were proud.

i am a native new yorker. i have been to – the iconic – madison square garden (msg) many times. there was the time – during my horse-crazy phase (which incidentally hasn’t ever really ended) – when my parents took me to the national horse show, probably around 1968 or ’69. there was the time i went to the john denver concert in the later 70s. and there was the circus a little later. more concerts and events i can’t even remember. it is – as stated on their website – “a celebrated center of New York life…with an appearance at the worlds most famous arena often representing a pinnacle of an athlete’s or performer’s career.”

i was horrified to see footage of the maga rally held there – on the pinnacle stage of a performer’s career – this past sunday.

what america is this?

there are no words to describe the ultra-ugliness, the bold hatred, the disrespect, the dystopian rhetoric, the clear fascist intent of this rally. it was despicable in every way. i am not tapped out for adjectives like i was in the canyonlands of this beautiful country. i am tapped out for adjectives that adequately describe the deplorable nature of this unforgivable rally.

the intent of the maga candidate and his sycophants is obvious. it is not in question. there is no denying it. it is in plain view.

but you can vote against it.

and so, i ask you this:

are you still undecided? are you still planning on voting for this grossly incompetent maga candidate? do his words – and the words of his platform and his cronies make you proud? are you ready for an authoritarian state of being, for the crushing of this democracy, for cruel undermining and undeterred marginalization, for the treasonous demolition of america, the beautiful? is this what you want?

and, if you are still undecided, if you are planning on throwing away everything – every single thing iconic about the democracy of this country, if you are planning on voting for the candidate who is making you – YOU – complicit in making the united states of america a fascist regime, what in the hell are you thinking?

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this FLAWED WEDNESDAY

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the thing of traveling. [kerri’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab.]

it is the thing of traveling, of exploring, of adventuring. it is the awakening. it is the learning.

no matter where we have traveled, we have been reminded of our intense smallness – our tiny in the vast. this time is no different.

there is no end to these reminders, these gentle prods of realness, of perspective.

and for that, we are intensely grateful.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING SMACK-DAB

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salty daisies. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

in the rare moments d texts me, my phone ringtone is john denver’s annie’s song.

“you fill up my senses like a night in the forest, like a mountain 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.

come let me love you, let me give my life to you. let me drown in your laughter, let me die in your arms. let me lay down beside you, let me always be with you. come let me love you, come love me again…”

and in those moments – daisy moments – i am reminded, once again, of the improbability of two tiny starflecks in the universe noticing each other, of the utter impossibility of our meeting, the sheer unlikeliness of our marrying, the astounding unimaginable gift of our time together.

even in the moments when my senses are overburdened, impatient, saturated, senseless.

daisies in any form, every stage – this wildflower fleabane – are just like hearing annie’s song. because i am me, they bring tears to my eyes.

“remember,” they whisper from the meadow on the side of the trail, “just remember.”

a long, long time ago my big brother penned a calligraphy print. it says, “may there be such a oneness between you that when one weeps the other will taste salt.”

we are beyond fortunate.

and salty and grateful.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

AND NOW ©️ 2015 kerri sherwood

GRATEFUL from AS IT IS ©️ 2004 kerri sherwood

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daisycup abundance. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

“it’s impossible to be lonely

when you’re zesting an orange.

scrape the soft rind once

and the whole room

fills with fruit.

look around: you have

more than enough.

always have.

you just didn’t notice

until now.”

(abundance – amy schmidt)

and the daisy turned skyward – cup-full. and as i passed, it reminded me of abundance and plenty.

for the measure of both abundance and plenty is not rigid. it is variable. my plenty is different than yours. and different expectations apply to abundance. it does not serve me well to gauge mine – my plenty, my abundance – by your standards. no, that comparison is not right. there are similarities. there are dissimilarities.

instead, i’ll look at the daisycup. i’ll set my face to the sun. i’ll count the times the dogga runs around the pond. i’ll gaze at the pussywillows on the white bathroom windowsill. i’ll savor the creak of old floors under my bare feet. i’ll tighten the back screen door handle. i’ll watch the house finches dine on grape jelly. i’ll feel his hand wrapped around mine.

we’ll go look for turtles from the bridge. we’ll clink glasses on the deck. we’ll listen to the wind in the chimes. we’ll paint rocks, write words and create big pots of soup. we’ll walk in sync on the sidewalk. we’ll make leftovers and serve them with happy napkins. we’ll relish time with family, with friends. we’ll make plans; we’ll revise plans. we’ll kiss goodnight.

because – when i notice – my daisycup is full.

with plenty.

abundance.

*****

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