reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: grief


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

(about this week: there is a peril, it seems, to writing ahead these days. we had decided that this week – the first full week of a new year – we wished to use images of light as our prompts, we wished to linger on the possibility of light, of hope, of goodness. though our blogposts might stray from that as we pen them, it was without constant nod to the constant updating of current events – a mass of indefensible, unconscionable acts. we pondered what to do about these blogposts we had written and decided to keep them. we hope that – whether or not any absence of the happenings of the day, whether or not the chance these written words seem somewhat inane at this moment – you might know that those events – of corruption, illegality, immorality – do not distill or distort our intention – to bring light and hope to this new year – the first days of which bring more insanity and unnerving instability. we are still holding space for light.)

and so…

it is almost a week prior to this day that i am writing this.

i just found out that my cousin tony died. my dad’s sister’s son, we had only reconnected in the last few years and had not – yet – re-met each other. this makes me inordinately sad today. in a busy world that sorted its way through the pandemic and then hence, a visit together had not yet happened. time did not wait.

i didn’t know he was ailing, and maybe he wasn’t. maybe it was sudden. either way, it came as a shock to me and i could feel it contract my heart, squeezing it and eliciting regrets.

i hope – now – that we will someday meet cousin tony’s family…his children, his grandchildren. i hope to hear some more stories. i hold onto his older postings, politically in alignment with my own thoughts and beliefs, grateful for his assertiveness and candor. i hold tenderly onto those moments we had on the phone together – two cousins who missed out on sharing life together.

my dad’s sister – my aunt helen – had four children. with the exception of cousin maria, they were all older than me by years. that rift thing that fractures families sometimes – that I’ve written about before – took most of the years. the remaining years and months and days that have passed have taken three of my cousins. my cousin linda remains. in a tiny family, it seems important to travel east and spend actual moments together.

this has been a season. there has been much loss for many people around us. every single time we think we have time – in the future – with someone, i feel as if we learn that might not be so…we are reminded that there is no lock on – no tenacious hold – we have on life itself. we can try our best but these moments keep ticking and we are just lucky enough to be in them.

the sky was brilliant out the front door. i called d to come and see it.

the phone’s camera doesn’t really capture it. the colors were so much more vivid. the dusk so much more palpable. the intake of breath so much more visceral. falling into the pause – a moment of the infinite.

and we got to see it.

that’s the thing. it’s all there to see – always. connection, beauty, love.

it boils down to standing on the front porch, gazing at the sky.

what more is there, really?

*****

in honor and memory of my cousin tony.

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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every falling leaf. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

in my son’s first year at lawrence university, i had the joy of visiting the campus fairly often. one of those times there was a comedian on campus and, along with a group of his friends, i went to her show.

it was fall 2011. tig notaro was about 40 then – though she looked way younger. i was 52 or so, not a heck of a lot older. following her bright career for a bit, it was difficult to see her deal with complicated and dangerous medical issues, the abrupt death of her mother, breast cancer, a double mastectomy, relationship breakup.

hundreds – maybe thousands – of shows in the growth of her success later, we watched her on anderson cooper’s – stunning – grief podcast “all there is”.

we stumbled upon this just a few nights ago – after you-tube-ing the news until we could no longer take any more in. anderson was visiting with ken burns and the show was titled, “the half-life of grief is endless“. there is nothing like an honest, open conversation about mortality and loss to draw you in. i repeated the words aloud: “the half-life of grief is endless” before realizing that quote had been – aptly – chosen as the title of that episode.

it feels true – in my opinion. the half-life of grief IS endless. and in that space we inhabit – that space that loss always shields with an impermeable membrane – we find so much meaning, so much life, so much right-now.

though well-acquainted with loss of dear people around her, tig spoke specifically of the loss of her friend, poet andrea gibson. she described the feeling of andrea nearby her. she read bits of her poetry. anderson cried. i cried. i think d cried too.

i never could understand how – when my big brother died – the world could just go on. i wasn’t a child. i was 33 and pregnant with my second child. but i still couldn’t grok it, even as i had lost others in my life, even as I could cognitively understand it. it was a gut-punch, yet i could feel him – wayne – nearby. i could sense his humor, his brilliant mind.

in the love letter that andrea wrote to their fiancée, they wrote “dying is the opposite of leaving…” and in the same, their words, “ask me the altitude of heaven and i will answer ‘how tall are you?'”

i cannot hike in the woods without stopping. there is so much to take in, so much for which to gently hold space, so much to be grateful for. just to see it all…washes over all the grief and enlivens all the grief. both.

and then there is this: “every falling leaf is a tiny kite with a string too small to see, held by the part of me in charge of making beauty out of grief.” (andrea gibson)

*****

LAST I SAW YOU © 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood

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wilted. [kerri’s blog on flawed wednesday]

there are definitely days – many of them – during which we would love to just run away. go to some far away remote place and hole up together, sans current events and other people. because it is all sometimes unbearable.

a writer and former pastor, john pavlovitz said it well, “the greatest tragedy to me isn’t him. it isn’t the reality that the person in the highest seat of power in our nation lacks a single benevolent impulse, that his is impervious to compassion, incapable of nobility, and mortally allergic to simple kindness. the greatest tragedy is how many americans he now represents – and that he represents you.”

there are too many “you”s.

and, like this dill in the middle of the heat-dome-heat, we are wilted. because it is exhausting. utterly exhausting.

i don’t honestly know how this country can ever regain its heart.

i don’t know how we got here – though one can certainly track lines of bigotry and hatred and violence through history. the ebb and flow of the heartless seeking of power, control, profit through any means whatsoever, without any scruples, ethics, or conscience.

the things that are happening, the things that people champion – people i have known or loved or cared about – the things that diminish support for others, marginalize groups, perpetuate cruelty…it’s just too much.

and…the grief. not just the grief of the arc of this history, but the contemporaneous grief. it is exhausting. utterly exhausting.

no amount of water will unwilt this dill. it will turn yellow and then brown and these stems will die. for these stems – in the extreme heat – have reached the point of no return. i must be more vigilant to protect the rest of the plant, to – figuratively – keep its heart beating and its spiny stems upright.

so it is here – in the middle of this reeling and this vigilance and this burning grief and this already-deeply-bone-aching tiredness i wonder how – exactly – we can keep the heartbeat of democracy when the moral spine of this nation is so compromised.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this FLAWED WEDNESDAY

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my mom. still. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

every time i turn a shampoo bottle over and empty the remains into a new shampoo bottle – each upside-down tap of the bottle, drawing the last vestiges of shampoo to the top, makes me think of her.

every bird in the backyard, every endcrust of bread, every leftover dinner, every time i do laundry or make lists, merry morning sunshine.

every time we use the wire cheese slicer, every time i pass by the snake plant, every time i tend our houseplants, every time i thank someone who has generously served us in some way.

every time i see a dachshund or a hosta, every time i think of Long Island, every time i write in my calendar, every area rug on a wood floor, sweet potatoes, math.

every time i make do, every time i save something for ‘special’, every time i turn a few specific phrases or use a coupon, collect rocks or driftwood, every time i make – or have – french fries or iced tea.

every time i see liverwurst or have rye toast, catch the aroma of roast beef in an oven or see a jar of ragu sauce.

when i see beets, when i have onion dip, when I devour crumb cake or chips ahoy, when i coffee-sit, when i repurpose things, when i think about baked ziti or darning socks.

when i defend how to pronounce “sauna”, when i see the “sisu” sign in my studio, spiral notebooks and scrap copies, when i hear “wowee!”, when i stood at the edge of the grand canyon.

every time. i think of my sweet momma. and I wonder how it is possible that she left this world ten years ago today. ten. ten years without her. ten years of not being able to pick up the phone and call her. ten years without mom hugs. ten years without a mom who would listen to any story i told her – any number of times i told it – knowing that my biggest fan was this woman, who was ahead of her time in so many ways.

i wonder how she is feeling now about the turn of all she left behind. i wonder if she has that certain stink eye she’d get, wishing to admonish this country’s current leaders and those following in lock-step. i wonder if the public deflection and distraction of some – avoiding the truth of their choice, avoiding taking responsibility for that choice, literally cheerleading this horror, loudly or silently – i wonder if seeing all that makes her crazy. knowing my momma – and her humanitarian and political leanings – i’m fairly certain she is pretty “irked” – as she would say. she is likely fired up and giving someone a piece of her mind somewhere on the other side. as high-road as she was (and, probably, is) she is not one to put up with the destruction of the country for which she and my dad sacrificed.

and so, every time i speak up or speak out i think of her. every time i voice absolute protection of the rights of members of my family. every time i express horror for the dismantling of this democracy and the cruel disenfranchising of people of the populace. every time i see another nail skewering women. every time i read about the dumbing-down, the elimination of history, the blunting of truth, the big-time grift. every time i stand up for what she taught me about kindness to people. every time. i think of her.

and every time i see the print “live life, my sweet potato” i think of her. and i miss her. yet again.

i think it will always be this way.

after all, she’s my mom.

still.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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oh, horseshoe. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

we clearly need this. not just one horseshoe. two horseshoes. not in relief, but in iron. hanging over the entire country spilling good luck, positive energy and protection from evil over the whole nation. nothing else seems to be working.

honestly. it is freakish what is happening here. every single day i am stunned by the corruption and evil doings of this administration. every single day i am shocked by the cheering squad. every single day i am forced to reckon with the fact that people don’t care about the facts, that people don’t care about the evil or the corruption. every single day i am rocked to my core, grieving relationships that were dear to me but that place me or my very own children in peril.

i imagine many get what i feel.

if a horseshoe is supposed to bring good things, then – certainly – two will do the job.

we have one in the sunroom. it leans against the big ponytail palm on our plant stand. it used to be my sweet momma’s and it is upside down, supposedly catching all universe goodness for us here in our home. i’m hoping it’s still working; there are no low battery alerts, no alarm, no indicators of its potency or lack thereof. but there is belief. and maybe – just maybe – this rusty old horseshoe is keeping belief fresh and alive.

we surely need some talisman of better times, a way out of chaos, depravity and malfeasance, a generously compassionate way forward.

that talisman is most definitely not red hats.

*****

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the precipice and the fallout. [kerri’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab.]

i have no doubt we’ll all fall over it at some point – the precipice.

there will be some moment of grief, some slight, some jarring change, some out-and-out grotesque manifestation of this-thing-that-is-coming that will be the precipice for each of us.

i have already felt it. i fell over it on new year’s day. i realized that this thing that is coming now – in 2025 – this new administration’s cruelty and revenge, the emphasized attitudes disenfranchising people, the new way of being in this country, the gloating extremist, isolationist stance this country will take in this world – is already taking a toll. the precipice is real.

for the life of me i cannot understand wanting such things. i cannot understand turning my back on the rights and needs and experiences of my own family or friends. i cannot understand being a cheerleader for what’s coming. and, on new year’s day, it pushed me over the precipice and i spent the day grieving. for all the light i have tried to seek, for all the light i have tried to be, this thing-that-is-coming faster-than-fast pushed me under and into darkness.

it is real.

there will be fallout. fallout for people who know it’s coming, for people who bandwagoned and didn’t bother researching, for people who have family and friends against whom they voted. and that’s the part that made my heart hurtle over the cliff.

even though i knew it – and have known it for a couple months now – the fallout – part of which, of course, is silence – is painful beyond imagining.

knowing is hard.

i imagine i am not alone…one day at a time it all becomes more and more real…and so one day at a time there are others who are over-the-precipice-ing. it’s not going away and, as we are gleaning, it will only get worse and worse. and people voted for all of it. and i wonder – again and again – if it ever occurred to them to think about their own families or friends or community that might be drastically impacted by this new reality – the one they were choosing.

and so the fallout will gain momentum. not just the stuff that the new administration is going to set in place – the stuff that will marginalize more and more people, that will push people down – those already disenfranchised, those about-to-be disenfranchised. the fallout will lift up others – those with self-aggrandizing agenda, those with monster motives, those who perpetuate hatred, those who are clearly soul-less. and the fallout – well – it will snap the binding of relationships at their core, it will silence conversation, it will destroy friendships, it will undermine families.

because it’s real.

now – each time we are hurtled over the precipice – for it is likely that will be more than once – it will be our job to climb back up, to seek safe shelter and to heal from the pummeling of the precipice-fall. even a little bit. to keep going. to get to – what we hope will be – the other side of all this. to survive.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

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the infinite infinite. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

somewhere – in the infinite infinite – i suppose that my sweet momma and poppo might be with my big brother, nibbling on crumbcake and coffee ice cream. maybe they are having a chat about christmas eve norwegian fish pudding and rum cake. or maybe about burning your fingertips making krumkake. maybe they are reminiscing about singing carols in the living room – gathered around the organ or the piano, my brother with his guitar, my uncle with his beautiful tenor.

i suppose that the party might be bigger…with their baby daughter i never met, with my grandparents, with their siblings, with friends they treasured. they may pop open the martini & rossi asti or blend some eggnog, assuming there is electricity. maybe they are swinging on stars and peering through the clouds at us here; maybe they are missing us.

in the way that things are in this place right now, i am glad that my sweetest mom and dad are not physical witnesses to what is happening, for their hearts would be broken by the ugliness of these times. i am grateful – in an odd way – that they do not have to experience what will be in the next for this country, for our world. even with everything they saw and endured in their lives – which is plenty considering they were born in 1921 and 1920 – i know that what’s happening and what’s coming would challenge and disappoint their beliefs and values to the core.

and so, in the meanwhile – between now and the infinite infinite – i will miss them. the axis has never returned to balance since they’ve been gone and this time of year brings that home even more.

i do believe, though, that if my momma – ever the letterwriter – could write in the sky – out there by the moon – she would. she’d likely draw words with the help of clouds and contrails. and she’d spell out something like, “daddy says ‘hello brat!‘” and “don’t forget to live life, my sweet potato!”.

when i look up – or inside – i can hear them both.

merry christmas mom and dad.

*****

bonus track (god be with you till we meet again) © 1996 kerri sherwood

read DAVID’s thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

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what is real. [kerri’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab.]

i told him the other day I wasn’t sure if i had anything left to say. in the lostness following this horrific election, i still feel all the things i have already written about – truly gutted.

i would imagine that there are many of ‘me’ out there. heart-broken, infuriated, exhausted, confused, feeling betrayed.

and in that wanderland of grief sit the questions of “what is real?” and “who is real?”. they nag at me – wherever i am. we escaped to the trail and they followed me – sitting heavy on my heart, ponderous.

real (adjective): 1. actually existing as a thing or occurring in fact: not imagined or supposed. 2. (of a substance or thing) not imitation or artificial; genuine.

and

real: behaving or presented in a way that feels true, honest, or familiar and without pretension or affectation.

and so i look at life now and think about what is real and who is real.

the “real” i knew would have stood by me, by my family, by values i assumed we shared, by the lifting up of humanity.

the “real” i knew would have been morally aghast by the cruel, devastating intentions of the new maga-regime.

the “real” i knew would have pushed back against all of it – leading with goodness and kindness.

but i guess the “real” you wanted me – and everyone else – to see wasn’t really real. and i will now admit, you fooled me.

i suppose – like many others will – that i could pretend it doesn’t matter. i could act like it doesn’t matter. i could interact like it doesn’t matter. i could just go on as if it doesn’t matter. but it does. it matters. it’s real.

mary oliver wrote, “you can fool a lot of yourself, but you can’t fool the soul.”

so even as i fight the internal fight – trying – irrationally – to hold onto what or who is really not real – my soul knows.

and, like many of you trying to process this soul-knowing, i am deeply sad.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

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gutted. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

no air.

there has been little air in me these last days. like many of you – but clearly, not all of you – i feel gutted.

i, too, watched as this nation elected what it elected. and, like you, we all know what that means, voting in cruelty, burying compassion, damning moving forward and any what-could-have-been’s.

someone dear to me texted me on election day, writing: “and the thing is, people will never not know who they [others] voted for and supported.”

exactly. we cannot un-know what you voted for.

as I quoted yesterday, you are who you elect. (michael ramirez – the washington post)

i woke up yesterday, my eyes still swollen – like yours – feeling strangled by the results of this election. it was as if color had escaped, as if texture had been jackhammered away, as if air was only to be found in shallow hyperventilated gulps. my children, i kept thinking, pondering their future, my daughter, my son.

there is much to do. and I don’t even know what that means right now.

we took a walk in the woods.

there was the simplicity of our footsteps – one foot in front of another – step, step, step. boiling it down. movement.

it was quiet but for rustling squirrels, blissfully unaware of the election, merely gathering for the fallow that will soon befall the forest.

there was beauty. inevitably. and, for a bit of time on our hike – the time when we weren’t spilling our grief on the path – i got just the tiniest bit lost in it.

i fear that things, that living – for the rest of my life – will never be the same again. that the darkness – darkness which people we all know have chosen – will engulf everything.

so i know that there is much to do, despite the utter grief and despair i feel right now. there is much to do to bring back the light.

this morning i woke when the sun was just coming up. dogga jumped on the bed as soon as he knew we were the slightest bit awake. we were quiet as the light began to stream into our room. we sipped coffee.

we will clean the house. we will go take a hike. we will attempt to breathe. we will be aware of beauty. we will study it – its astonishingness – and i will try to figure out how to bring it to this aching world any way i can.

and all the air will circulate ’round – the wind of next days and next days – filling our tired lungs, drying our eyes, helping us take one step after another, so that we can do the much that needs to be done.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY


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who you are. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

“you are who you elect.” (michael ramirez – the washington post )

dismay doesn’t begin to describe it. devastated doesn’t begin to describe it.

the betrayal of any goodness is rampant. over half of this country voted for it. whatever your flagship policy issue was – when you stepped up to that voting booth – it should have absolutely paled in comparison to the potential of the cruelty that is now coming, the cruelty you chose.

in your vote you have eliminated all options for meeting in the aisle, for affording change that would have addressed your concerns as well as mine. in your vote you have forever undermined the constitution of this country, undermined democracy, paving the way for authoritarianism, people gleeful to have absolute power and control. in your vote you have done away with – trampled – the rights of women, of minorities, of the LGBTQ community. in your vote you have decimated healthcare, social security, medicare, education. in your vote you, who have descended from immigrants, gallingly voted to remigrate the country into whiteness, into extreme nationalism. in your vote you have opted to give your complicit nod to the alignment of this country with dictators and tyrants around the world. in your vote you have doomed any hope for our physical planet. in your vote you have thrust this country backwards.

but silly me. why would i spell out what your vote meant? you already knew. and you didn’t care.

i did not know your heart was quite this cold. i am horrified. i fear i no longer know you.

i am grieving. and crying doesn’t touch it.

a dear friend texted me late last night.

“i still can’t believe hate won!” she wrote.

exactly.

but it did.

“you are who you elect.”

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY