reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: healing


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shadow wisdom. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

the shadow knows.

on this part of our walk in the ‘hood, our shadows precede us. we follow them east down the sidewalk, never quite catching up. and, just as suddenly as they appeared, they disappear – as we turn a corner and head for home.

i, laughing aloud, wish for the long, skinny legs of my shadow. though we clearly can’t see our expressions in our shadow photograph, we both smile as i take a picture. it reminds me of times of confusion in my life when it was difficult to sort out the emotions of the time – and i smiled anyway.

when i was in junior high we were assigned the task of choosing an old radio show, writing a new script and recording the show onto cassette tape. my group chose “the shadow”. “who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of man? the shadow knows.” i don’t remember the script we wrote or the storyline we chose, but i do remember the commercial we made. it was about a product that could clean anything – from brushing your teeth to heavy grunge cleaning – the same product.

i am aware of shadow work – the shadow – the place where unprocessed trauma is found, where pain is stored, where we somehow try to protect ourselves. the work to help recognize what has become unconsciously present in our lives. it would seem important for all of us to have an opportunity for the quiet time to step into our shadow – the place that knows. because we are human, there are always places in our heart to heal.

in the meanwhile and here in the sweet phase, we walk arm in arm around the block a few steps behind our shadows. we binge on happy moments and hoard them for trying times, sad times, confusing times, times when our shadow tilts its head and asks us to feel something else.

we carry the wisdom of time we have already spent living. there’s a knowledge we gain as we experience the blisses and the traumas of this life. and smiling – even in the shadow times – stokes the fire, keeps the pilot light on, reminds us of the here and now and the evanescence of it all.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

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the way to fly. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

“and the spirit fills the darkness of the heavens
it fills the endless yearning of the soul
it lives within a star too far to dream of
it lives within each part and is the whole
it’s the fire and the wings that fly us home…”

(the wings that fly us home – john denver/joe henry)

and soon afterward, the sky was softer. and soon afterward, the clouds billowed like bubbles stacking up on a bubble-wand after gently blowing, finally releasing, floating off. and soon afterward, it softened to pink and pale lavender. and soon afterward, one single bird winged its way across the sky, blurring in flight.

and the shift in the universe brought a little bit of healing, a little bit of perspective. it eased the darkpain, the yearning for something different. it connected the dots from earth’s ground to the stars-so-distant. it lit hope and a freedom that had been elusive.

and afterward, my heart flew me home. back to steady. back, but with wings. for next.

“find out what you already know and you will see the way to fly.” (jonathan livingston seagull – richard bach)

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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thistle balm. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

the last thing i expected to see – when we left the building – was anything of beauty.

and yet, there it was. just a little down the hill. growing out of a crack on the city sidewalk, a prickly thistle – with all its thorns – in full bloom.

the flowers were dynamic and dimensional. spiny. seuss-ish.

the plant stopped me. it stopped all thought. it stopped all manner of anything. it was that unexpected. and suddenly, i was distracted. and it was all about the musk thistle blooms. the mystery of prickly and stunning co-existing, a plant that can grow where others cannot.

and for a few moments, i was lost to texture and color…fuchsia and pink, purple and maroon, my heart lifting.

it is said – in the celtic tradition – that the thistle represents resilience.

i wonder sometimes how the universe knows.

*****

DIVINE INTERVENTION from RELEASED FROM THE HEART ©️ 1995 kerri sherwood

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the sweet phase. [kerri’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab.]

in aspen, colorado, it is one of our favorite trails…alongside the ridgeline, through the aspen forest, ducking under fragrant pine, climbing. the vistas are stunning, the scent is rejuvenating, the air fresh and cool.

this time there was snow on the trail. the combination of the warm sun and the snow beneath our feet was exquisite. new trekking poles in hand, we were in our glory.

if you don’t take the bridge over the more swollen section of the stream and climb higher, than you can take a divergent path and step rock to rock upstream to an old log that lays there just waiting for people to sit on it. we have sat on that very log every single time we have hiked this trail.

there is something magical about that spot. right in the middle of the stream, mountains behind us, dappled sun on our faces. it is as if every single thing becomes clear. we sit in that very space and all the life-whirling stops, the dots connect, the primary is primary. love.

we dropped our hands into the cold mountain stream, water running swiftly over them and on to the rocks below us.

we talked. we were silent. we touched cold fingertips to cold fingertips.

it is the sweet phase.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

SMACK-DAB © 2024 kerrianddavid.com

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the perennial. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

“neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.” (desiderata – max ehrmann)

we wander down roads peppered with aridity and disenchantment. the impact is exhausting. the fallout can be long-lasting. they – aridity and disenchantment – wind around our fragile hearts, pressing, making us short of breath.

we are disappointed. we believed that others were different. we believed we were cared about, appreciated, that we were held in grace.

we are shaken. for some things take us by surprise, some people take us by surprise. we flail and stumble over these rugged rocks slyly hiding just beneath the road’s surface.

we are hurting. for we feel betrayed. aridity and disenchantment pale; they are dim heartbeats of betrayal.

and we find we must take a moment, a respite on the side of the road. our hearts are floundering.

and – somehow, somewhere – we are reminded. just as we were about to pick up the cynicism white flag, we can see it: love.

and we can feel the river flowing through us and we can feel hope rising. for under the snow the grass is greening.

and we turn away from that which causes us profound thirst, that which prevents growth. and we discard that which has been a rude awakening, that which has elicited utter disillusionment.

and we face the perennial.

*****

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

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bear witness. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

“people start to heal the moment they feel heard.” (cheryl richardson)

it is not likely we always know. moments when people are sharing something with us – something raw, something of import, something life-changing. no, we don’t always know. because these things of significance – along with great gravitas – don’t always come with drumrolls or prologue announcements. they are stammered out, with some reticence and a side of fear. and we have a choice – an opportunity – as someone standing nearby or walking alongside, someone close-in or someone peripheral. it matters not – in humankind – our interconnectivity supersedes our concentric circle.

as we stand – in the fire – with someone who is sharing, our presence acknowledges their pain, their angst, their experience, their feelings. our being-there shines light into dark, into the fog.

in our indifference, we yield great power to hurt others, to walk on, to overtly turn our attention away from the sharer, to underplay this very part of their journey they wish to share.

she said, ” it is vitally important how those around react to the news of trauma, for that is powerfully profound in how a person heals.” both the overt overlooker and the covert minimizer add to the burden one is already carrying, the burden that will likely be buried further and further inside – more and more difficult to excavate, heal and release.

instead, we can choose not to perpetuate the pain of others. and they can aid us in transforming the place where our own pain may be held. we can each reach beyond silence – for the other. we can hover with each other and offer wisps of hope.

we can bear witness. 

it doesn’t take much. we are all together in this big world – full of the potential not only to delight us but to devastate us. we walk together. we can support others in feeling heard. it’s really the least we can do: listen. really listen.  

*****

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

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the place by the big trees. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

i spent much of last year looking back. way back. way past up-close. way way back – way way past the smallest of trees on the horizon. it was necessary and painful and shocking and mighty tedious.

“… the mind clings to the road it knows / rushing through crossroads / sticking like lint to the familiar…”
(mary oliver)

and then you peel back the lint that is dryer-vent-covering it all. you wipe off the fuzzy pieces. you take a good hard look at what’s really there, at what you have softened with the padding of trying to forget, of stuffing you have piled on top of your frame, of what you have buried, of the traintracks you have sprinted ahead on, leaving the veritable picture of perspective – the v of traintracks running far behind – away away – with trees so small you can barely discern they are trees. and there it all is. raw. 

and you can see it. and your brain tries to stop you from seeing it. both. so you sit with it – laden – burdened – in the retrospect of it all – connecting the dots, sometimes nodding your head in sudden understanding, sometimes eyes wide, horrified at it all.

it is surreal. you are back there. you can feel it. but you know – that in merely a blink – you can be where you are right now…where you are really. 

and suddenly, you are at a crossroads. you must choose between replacing the lint – tamping it back down and turning your face away from it – or recognizing it as a shield, pulling it all out – this ancient insulation – discarding it and then staring at what’s left – what is now feeling air and space and attention. 

“trauma creates change you don’t choose. healing is about creating change you do choose.” (michelle rosenthal)

and then, after some time – some processing, some sorting, some meaning-making, some swearing, much courage, sheer survival – you glance at all the baggage laying next to you – rolliebags and backpacks, crossbody bags and trunks, paper bags and reusable grocery sacks – and you pick up only that which you wish to carry. 

and you make your way back up the tracks to the place you really are. the place by the big trees.

*****

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

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pussywillows. [k.s. friday]

with gordon lightfoot crooning in my ear, i stroked the pussywillows on the trail. i can’t remember seeing these on trail before. i know i would have noticed – their softness begs touch.

“pussywillows, cat-tails, soft winds and roses
rain pools in the woodland, water to my knees
shivering, quivering, the warm breath of spring
pussywillows, cat-tails, soft winds and roses”

(gordon lightfoot, “pussywillows, cat-tails” 1968)

smooth silvery-grey under our fingertips, we each took time to touch, to marvel at the beauty. and gordon lightfoot sang on in my mind.

as a writer, composer, lyricist, there are decisions one must make along the way. we place ourselves in a vulnerable spot, not for our own purpose or indulgence, but, instead, in the hope of resonating with someone who needs the words or music or lyrics we write, in the hope of reaching someone else walking in similar shoes, in the hope of assuring someone out there who needs to know they are not alone. and so, at the risk of thus vulnerably over-sharing, i offer this:

but some things are triggers. and, as the verses and guitar continued, this particular gordon lightfoot song is one of them. my #metoo was at the hands of a musician, a serial predator who walks freely even today. he played guitar and charmed his way into the never-to-forget-lives of many susceptible young women. a man who softly sang gordon lightfoot and james taylor, who wrote love songs, new lyrics for gorgeous SATB hymns, and taught guitar surely was to be trusted, right? wrong.

i can appreciate these beautiful pussywillows, another harbinger of spring and new life. but i stop a moment and give nod to my much earlier self. in a watershed, i recognize the parallel of this earliest time working in the church and my latest work. bookends.

“riding on the roadside the dust gets in your eyes”

it’s not the dust that brings tears to my eyes, it’s not the spring air laden with newness of pollen, the turning of season. it’s the raw bookended time in places i trusted as safe. i cannot help now but examine it all up close, process it, grieve the loss of innocence, the devaluing of women, abhor the loss of respectful truth and the reign of agenda. the bookends hold upright the time in-between, all the books of life, times and experiences and mistakes and successes, the laying down of any attempt to process, to make right, of any ramifications for the wrongdoer. the bookend of late was a stunning surprise. i am astonished at its destruction, now, no longer a teenager. i find it all shockingly galling.

“slanted rays and colored days, stark blue horizons”

the horizon is much like the horizon all those decades ago. it’s surprising to return to that feeling. i want to leave, to run, just like that other time, that other bookend. my physical life, however, is not at stake this time. it is me, my loss of community, my loss of position, stolen integrity. i cannot wrap my head around the slanted rays, the starkness.

“treasuring, remembering, the promise of spring
pussywillows, cat-tails, soft winds and roses”

treasuring, remembering. promises. but roses…the flower of love…it is hard to hear lyric of roses…my hope is to only hear gordon lightfoot in my mind’s eye and to forget the echoing bookends.

“shivering, quivering, the warm breath of spring”

to remember – spring is beginning to spring. the catkins of the willows are soft, cattails seed in the wind, warm circles us on the trail.

*****

WATERSHED ©️ 2004 kerri sherwood

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simply love. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

“…and now, you’re here, in a world of hypocrisy and your love can heal us all.” (you’re here – kerri sherwood)

in a universe fraught with challenge, an overabundance of materialism, a shortage of generous kindness, with unprecedented division and bigotry and marginalization of people, it would seem that whatever deity to whom we choose to turn – by whatever name we choose to whisper in prayer or utter in beseeching voices – that, in our turning, we look for light. it would seem that our fervent wish be healing.

it is not complicated.

it is simply love.

*****

YOU’RE HERE – kerri sherwood (recorded on an iphone at the keys of an out-of-tune church piano. maybe one of these days i will be able to record it properly.)

read DAVID’S thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

and here – another slice of the celebration of the season – from years ago:

and – in this week of preparation – i am reminded of previous years, many, many people gathered in community singing in celebration.

it is the work and the gift of a minister of music to help bring ancient stories to the hearts of people, to help those stories resonate – to help that which is not seen, that which is so mysterious, be felt – through music. we choose melodies that soar, harmonies that weep; we choose lyrics that tug.

my memory bank is full of solos and anthems and cantatas from decades of bringing them to congregations. this is an excerpt of narration and a song from a cantata i composed years ago called “the light is here – a christmas cantata”. this particular recording was performed by the choir of first united methodist church. ❤️

THE LIGHT IS HERE – excerpts – narration & HOLY – kerri sherwood

SMACK-DAB. ©️ 2022 kerrianddavid.com


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the trail in. [merely-a-thought monday]

when i was choosing seats for the elton john concert in north carolina, the – predictably – least expensive seats were the ones with an obscured view. a pillar, a speaker, a wall…something was in front of the seats, not allowing you to see. or maybe the seats were behind the horizon line of the stage, the apron, making elton basically invisible.

clearly these seats – still dang expensive – weren’t right. i mean, if you can’t see him perform and you can’t really see the jumbotron why not just sit and listen to ej cd’s instead? clearly, that’s not the point.

so i stayed away from the obscured-view-seats and chose seats from which we could see all the action. high up, yes. but we could see it all.

we passed a sign in the chicago botanic garden, posted by a tiny trail. “by screening out views and creating hidden areas, this garden entices you to explore just beyond what you can see.” we couldn’t see into the garden…so we took the little trail in. it was beautiful and a little magical. a little secret garden. not obvious. beyond sight.

the work of an artist – of any medium – is like that. find the places just beyond. find the line of melody that tugs, that urges, that compels. bring those places to others so that they might explore them as well. past the horizon. past the stage. you can still hear elton from the obscured-view seats and you can still feel the energy.

in a thirty-plus year career as a minister of music i always felt that it was my job to introduce the obscured secret garden to others. for faith – regardless of denomination – is that which we cannot see, that which we cannot touch. my mission was simply to open hearts through music to see beyond what you can see, to explore beyond sight. grounding in the most basic of tenets – love, kindness, generosity, peace, embrace of all others, support, truth, fairness, equality, grace – i felt it imperative to offer music that might viscerally touch a person who might not otherwise be touched, to hold it all out there gently so that a soul could easily grasp it, hold it, be wrapped in it, be comforted by it. faith in something bigger in this universe is found in a river of changing times and circumstances and staying steadfast is like the path a leaf takes on that river, both raging whitewater and lazy currents. we open our hearts to explore, even though we cannot see.

it might be time to play my piano again. maybe. it’s been a long time – a couple years now, save for a few moments a few times. i haven’t been able to play it – the magic has been obscured from view – since, well, since i felt blindsided. but now…maybe now…finally…i can see the trail into the studio. maybe now the black and white notes lifting into the air – will heal hurting even just a little, will allow exploration and sight beyond the obvious tangible horizon, will open a heart again.

mine.

*****

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