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Tag Archives: gratitude


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

we watched the band on the lakefront at the harbor. the sky began to pastel itself into evening. the water reflected masts and the outline of the docks. at these slips i am gently transported back to northport harbor – days long ago – evenings filled with the clanking of rigs and seagulls seeking yet one more morsel. those were innocent nights and i couldn’t imagine myself anywhere else back then.

seagulls fly over our house fairly often since we live so close to the lake. their screeches fling me back in time just like the sun setting over the harbor. a lifelong sea-level girl who also adores the high mountains, i do love the water. we are fortunate to feel the presence of lake michigan – right…there. it’s not long island sound or the atlantic ocean, but it’s big water and we are aware of it, year-round.

we took a long walk along our lakefront the other day. the farmer’s market was bustling. there was a bridal party having a photo shoot in the breezes by the boats. six tiny children clustered around a cake singing happy birthday. food trucks were tempting and people wandered with big bundles of flowers. we turned from our harborfront and came back south – hugging the lake. few people, less hustle and bustle. we stood – with uninterrupted views of this really big lake – marveling at how beautiful it was and how fortunate we were to be able to walk along it at any time.

the guitarists sang and played songs from a variety of genres. they were terrific and the night was just-the-right-shade-of-cool. we sang along and i wanted to get up and dance in the grass a time or two. harbor thoughts floated as the sun set. we pasteled closer to darkness settling in and got ready to leave.

and the threshold of night – on the western sky – greeted us as we turned to go, boldly exclamation-pointing the evening.

*****

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

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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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read DAVID’S thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

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pro-patina. [ kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

the solid wood door leading to the basement has a permanent arced groove worn into it. it’s where the chain (for the chain door guard) dangles and it has likely dangled there for decades upon decades. it’s been there the entire time i have lived here – so 35 years. likely installed long ago to prevent small children from opening the door and falling on the steep stairs, back and forth it has swung when unlatched, wearing off the paint and into the wood. it would take some serious spackle, some sanding and a few good coats of paint to make this door look like new again. but we won’t be doing that. it’s the patina that matters.

the old back screen door has a similar worn-in arc. that one is from when i installed a hook and eye latch on the door a number of years ago to help prevent our babycat from pushing open the door and exiting the house. because the old door handle doesn’t always completely catch, the hook and eye was a guarantee to keep the door closed. once again, the hook has worn off the paint and worn into the door. it’s not a pristine door, but it tells a story. the patina matters.

our house is like that. one patina after another. it is not new construction – or even relatively new construction. it will be 100 in just four years and i’m already thinking about its centennial birthday party. we are not worried if there is another scratch in the old wood floors or a glitch in the paint or an imperfect ceiling. our house is not unlike us that way.

the old building in breckenridge drew me closer, inviting photograph after photograph of textures, the juxtaposition of wood and metal and brick facades. this copper hinge – in its march through time – in the green oxidation stage – beautiful. though i suspect there might be people who would prefer restoring it back to its original glory, i prefer the mark of the passage of time, the nod to aging, the stories that accompany its transition. the patina counts.

we love to watch hgtv househunters and we love to pick up real estate magazines in distant places. it’s always the old houses that are the most intriguing for us. never the perfectly-perfect new houses with perfectly-perfect paint and perfectly-perfect trappings. it is difficult to visualize us in a house like that. i’m not sure what that says about us.

maybe by appreciating – and truly loving – the old stories, the wear and tear of these old houses – the arcs of time passing by – we’re just sticking up for our own personal patinas.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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hippy is as hippie does. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

“one of these things is not like the others. one of these things just doesn’t belong.” (sesame street song – joe raposo/jon stone)

we tend to be different. not like the others. it never really surprises us.

we are holey-jeans-wearing-black-shirt-donning-boot-walking-long-hair artist types. so, walking down the streets of most towns, we sort of stand out – we are not wearing corporate clothes, neat-and-tidy clothes, fancy clothes.

there are towns – however – where we fit in a tiny bit better. they are mountain towns on off-days. these are days when the tourist population is down, the sidewalks are not full of louis vuitton and lululemon, the spots next to the curb aren’t proliferated with expensive vehicle logos. they are quieter days. and we stroll on the sidewalks and feel like we fit in.

we looked up the meaning of hippy. i’d like to ignore the “large hips” definition and skip directly to the “hippie/hippy” meaning. and then, i’ll just parse out the relevant stuff – gentle ideology that favors peace and love and personal freedom. yup. that’s the stuff.

it was just after we had been alerted multiple times – in chorus with every other person – in line or seated – who had a cellphone in breckfast, a busy eatery on the north end of this high mountain town – that there was an active shooter less than six minutes up the main road. we were pretty stunned, thinking that this beautiful place – with fresh air and the bluest skies and vistas you can only dream of – would be spared from that kind of violence.

we strolled down the street of breckenridge – our favorite – talking about this world.

we came across this sticker on the back of a street sign. “be hippy” happy face.

and we nodded, glancing at each other, grateful to be different.

*****

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

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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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to be here. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

there are days like this. when you can barely see the lake. were you not standing on its shore, watching its waves pummel the rocks below, you would not know. you would look out at the horizon and you would see nothing. the fog encases it all. even the line of sky and water. the fog here rolls in as the wind shifts and, for the closest mile in, all is awash in it.

i like to go to the lakefront on those days. it is beautiful. everything is in soft focus. and it seems somehow fitting to gaze out and not be able to discern much at all. there are days when it is important to be in the fog – to be wrapped in it – in order to remember to live the day – really, really live it.

we think ourselves able to plan, plan, plan. we believe our lists are important, get wrapped up in prioritizing what’s on them.

and the fog reminds us: things are not as clear as all that. they fall away into the mist as we stand, squinting our eyes to see. and then, the breath we see in front of our faces, the waves crashing near us as we stand on the boulders – they drop us into now.

i believe it would serve me well to remember the fog on clear days. to remember to hold it all lightly, in soft focus, to be where i am, to make the most of all of it, to not underestimate my fragility here. life is unfolding – both with and without my insistence on how, both with and without any clarity i might have, both with and without me.

until the sun burns through the fog to find the horizon, i am – once again – sitting in the interim of the fog, amazed at what i cannot see. not-knowing taps me on the shoulder. and reassures me that i have right-now.

and i am grateful to be here.

*****

happy birthday, my beloved daughter. 💗

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

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mommas et al. [kerri’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab.]

in the land of not-enough and too-much, i think i’d rather err to too-much. there’s too little time for not-enough.

happy mother’s day. xoxo

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

SMACK-DAB. Šī¸ 2024 kerrianddavid.com

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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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💚heart-door people. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

in direct contrast with the front door we pass on our way to the trail – the one that says “go away!” – there are many, many “welcome” signs at the front doors, on the front stoops, propped against the porches of other homes. big wooden signs, rubber door mats, hanging signs – all varieties of these ‘you are welcome here’ messages.

we make assumptions about other places. we believe we are welcome – at grocery stores, in bistros, in boutique shoppes, in schools, in religious institutions, in galleries and museums. they don’t really need a sign because we believe that the whole purpose of their existence is to encourage people to come in, take part in what they offer – whether it is shopping, dining, browsing, studying, being in community – whatever their mission. and we believe that we will be welcomed with open arms, open hearts.

but there are go-away-ers out there, even those without signs of loud proclamation. they are uninterested, unmoved, closed, uninvolved, unquestioning, passive, complicit. they are not with open arms, open hearts. their apathy is clear; their aloofness is cold.

we passed the magical heart entrance to a tiny home inside the trunk of a tree. i was drawn to it, for – as we know – hearts are sometimes where we least expect them. but here it is…the way in, through a heart-door.

there are people each of us know who are heart-door people. the people who are always happy to see you, the people who never turn away from you, the people who hold you when you need holding, the people who listen when you need to talk. heart-door people are not found in one particular place – they are not simply gathered, waiting for you. instead, heart-door people keep their eyes open, their minds open. theirs are doors that open into empathy and compassion. they are the comfy quilts of our lives, the steadfast longtimers, the warm newbies, the balance-givers, the standing-by-you folks, the speaking-up-for-you truthtellers.

there is a big disparity between the go-away-ers and the heart-doors. sometimes it’s easy to see the difference. sometimes it’s not.

it’s important to learn good discernment.

and then, it’s important to be grateful for your heart-doors.

*****

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

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the daffodil told us. [kerri’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab.]

and suddenly, there – in the midst of dried fallen leaves and fallowed underbrush, trees not yet ready to bud – there – there it was.

and it was simply in seeing it – the daffodil – that hope was evident. next is evident. tomorrow is evident.

anything right now will soon be before. the daffodil told us.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

SMACK-DAB. Šī¸ 2024 kerrianddavid.com

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