reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

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constant constancy. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

it feels like a bit of a homecoming. this trail is so familiar. yet it has been some time since we have been there, spending time on it. our absence – and its absence in our daily life – has not changed how it feels, though. that feeling we get – with our feet on its dirt – is still the same.

there is a constancy to some things. even in this ever-changing world, some things last.

this is the place we go to sort…a footpath that takes us through meadow and woods, bog and swamp and riverside.

each time we hike through – whether we have just been there or if it has been a long while – the trail reaches out to us – tendrils of soft air swirling around us – empty space for words or sighs or silence. it is a blank palette. we can choose to fill it or leave it blank – taking from it only what we need, knowing it will be there again the next time.

in these times of so.much.chaos, it feels like an imperative to find that which stays steadfast. instead of feeling like we are being whirled around, impacted by twisted intentions or mean-spirited cruelty, it is a matter of grounding to connect to the people or places or things that hold steady.

maybe it’s because of all the chaos, but we are finding that there are fewer and fewer of those people, places and things. does it just seem as though community is shrinking?

we wish we could be on the ditch trail or the trail up alongside the brook to the high mountain meadow. but for right now, this simple river trail brings us peace – with all its familiar twists and turns, the places we know to look for turtles, the sun patches where snakes sometimes sunbathe, the hawk’s screech overhead, the elusive deer in the briarpatch on the north end and in the woods down by the big curve in the river. just knowing it keeps us comforted, reassured.

the trail is relatively impervious to what is happening in this nation. fortunately, nature is doing its thing there and, for now, the trail and forest preserve are protected against invasive species and other things that would negatively impact it. it holds steady as the trail, not budging in its tender caregiving to the people who walk upon it, people who seek its quiet and its tenacity to maybe avoid this society’s current unrelenting assault on all their senses.

we are two of those people. grateful for this beautiful dirt path, grateful for its constant thick-and-thin constancy.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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from our backdoor. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

we have been spending a lot of time near home these days. with the uncertainty of our sweet old dogga, it is nearly impossible to make any plans to go away. we need to be here with him – through all the challenges his senior roller coaster presents.

and so, our hikes-for-miles are exchanged for walks-for-miles and are from our backdoor.

we take them at different times of day and in different weather. it is truly gobsmacking what is right nearby and, on these days close-to-home, we are taking care to notice that and appreciate it.

late on a stunning late-september afternoon – delaying dinner prep for a couple hours – we took off from home.

walking east along the marina we could see the smallest softest-pink half circle rising out of the lake. as we got closer, the pastel palette of sky continued to change hue – and the harvest moon began to make its way into the horizon.

we did absolutely nothing to help this moonrise – we simply stood in awe, staring at its stellar performance, soaking in the sheer beauty, the predictability of a moonrise, the comfort of something so normal yet so entirely gorgeous.

after a bit we noticed that many people had gathered on the rocks to watch, also obviously enchanted by it, also photographing it.

a sailboat was heading north and passed directly in front of the moon. as it continued to sail, people were comparing notes about their videos and photos of this moment in time – a moment we had all shared.

it was as if everyone was – for these minutes – on the same page. we could all agree that this soft-pink harvest moonrise was glorious.

if only all the rest of life-these-days were as aligned.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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stars. particularly now. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

d just painted over a huge canvas that prominently featured a star. i asked him why he painted over it, for i like stars, the universal message of stars, just the whole thing of stars. he said he thought that the painting looked like a hotel print, so ixnay on that aintingpay.

he has since continued painting this canvas – with earth-toned hues. day is done is clearly – to me – a portrait of the end of day beyond a dramatic hill landscape, the sky glowing a pre-dusk orange, the sun setting.

“day is done/gone the sun/from the lakes, from the hills, from the sky/all is well, safely rest/god is nigh.

fading light dims the sight/and a star gems the sky, gleaming bright/from afar, drawing nigh/falls the night.

thanks and praise/for our days/’neath the sun, ‘neath the stars, ‘neath the sky/as we go/this we know/god is nigh.” (“taps”)

star-flowered lily of the valley are important pollinators and – later in the season – develop berries which are a perfect food for birds. they truly hold an important place in the ecosystem in the woods…’neath the sun, ‘neath the stars, ‘neath the sky.

the star-flowered lily of the valley is native, its white star-shaped flowers delicate. they are little constellations of beauty, nestled in the green of their frond-y leaves. they are joyful little flowers; they simply make me happy as we hike.

because stars are like that.

and we can all use a reminder of comfort and protection of the universe. particularly now.

*****

DAY IS DONE

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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pause for thought. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

white flowers in the forest. with delicate petals – like the wood anemone – or the three sweeping waxy petals of the great white trillium – these white flowers dotting the underbrush of the woods are stunning, really beautiful. these seemingly fragile white blooms in and amongst a landscape not quite green, a landscape still rummaging around, waiting for spring’s full chorus.

we stop sometimes – just to take it all in – past ourselves, our thoughts, our conversation, our footsteps on the dirt. it gives us pause and slows our breathing.

the landscape design is immaculate – perfection. downed trees, leaves naturally composting, the canopy towns of mayapples bursting up through the ground, enchanting purple phlox, flowering pear trees. it is a slice of heaven.

in these days – when mosteverysinglething we read in the news makes us despondent, it seems that we must balance out our equilibrium a bit. for us, as you already know, that is the trail. the dirt paths in our area help us thrive as we all live in the shade of the current political chaos and the wreckage of our democracy. tiny bits of dappled light get through, but the challenge is to still keep going, despite the vast amount of dark.

white trillium prefers shade. these exquisite blooms find their home to be best in part or full shade. they are slow-growing, but long-lived – a combination that seems to push back against threatening negative influences, that rises out of deep winter, that sustains despite the odds, that shines in beauty. trillium live in colonies, interdependent on all the shrubs, trees, composting soil, insects, bacteria and fungi around it. its brilliant star shines alongside those it shares space with, symbiotically life-sharing companions.

pause for thought. yes. it gives us pause for thought.

maybe we all need to be like white trillium.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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bowing to time. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

“the white trout lily humbly bows on the forest floor. much like people, though on a different scale, their presence is ephemeral, fleeting. on sunny days, their petals will curl back, up, towards the sun; on shady days these small flowers may not even open. their simple beauty a mystery to the passerby, their faces shyly downward, they fill the underbrush on the side of the trail, dotting the landscape with fragile white blooms. i trust they are not concerned with the impact they make on the world nor do they wonder about their footprints once they are gone. they are simply there – love – dressed in white floral.” (from a post on august 26, 2021)

the tiny trout lily forest – as seen from the ground – stretching on and on, dotting through dry underbrush, the accumulation of fall and winter now giving it up to spring.

the day was stunning…warm, sunny, blue skies. a gift of a day, indeed. it was our first time back on our loop since we arrived home. it was time to process it all and that trail is one of our touchstones for processing. we wandered along the dirt path, talking, being silent, noting how this new season was transforming our woods.

when you travel to or through places where you are not known – where you are a stranger – there is a sense of humility. we immerse in little towns on back roads when we can, finding our way through someone else’s place, through a community of ‘others’ – those in the know about local customs, local gems, local folklore. we are just passersby – soon to be on our way somewhere else.

but we have discovered some of our favorite spots this way. we’ve found places to which we must return some day, places with which we have connected, places that seem magically aligned with us.

discovery is like that. our steps take us past the familiar, into the unknown, the mysterious.

as i got down on my knees to photograph the trout lily forest, i imagined being tiny and walking amongst the lilies. like walking in a city of towering buildings, anonymous to most.

this trail – so familiar – each twist and turn, the spots where we know there will be standing water, the spots where the sun bathes the path, the places where the scent of pine is strong. we are lucky to know this place.

it is not likely that hikers after us will wonder about our footprints. they will be intent on the awakening forest and the swollen river, on their own silence, on their own talk–talk.

but we were there.

and – again – i realize we are each just one of the trout lilies in the woods, just as fragile, just as ephemeral, bowing to time.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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forward-peeking. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

the honeysuckle has an early arrival on the trail. it makes me want to sit and write poetry about pioneer honeysuckle growing in the forest, along the edges of the path and deep into the underbrush, right on the heels of winter. poetry about a hopefulness that comes with early forward-peeking signs of spring, promises of growth, a nod making the past distant.

we have a way of holding onto the past – a metaphoric rope, if you will – with people and circumstances strung along it – holding the knots like tiny toddlers in a preschool line hold the knot of a rope to which their teacher is attached. in the case of the toddlers it is for safety. in the case of all of us – who drag along with us all the most toxic of our lives – it is not for the purpose of safety.

the day before my birthday i consciously chose to drop that metaphoric rope that dragged all the yuck with me everywhere i went. i have decided that there is no more good that can come from dragging the worst with me – every recollection of betrayal or hurt or time when healing was impossible. i decided – on that day – the day before my 67th birthday – that i was worthy of putting that rope down and leaving the past distant.

now, don’t get me wrong. as a thready person (and clearly, the use of the word thready must be deliberate) nearly everything is on some sort of connective tissue that stretches back to my heart. a compendium of threads and tissue and rope. some of those i will cling onto and hold dearly – that would be the ones with love and learning and success and hardship, a balance of life’s goodness and challenges, people i hold dear, filmy threads that don’t include people who have been intentionally mean-spirited or who have hunted opportunity to be demeaning or to exploit. those? those heavy loads will have to stay behind. i have finally realized – at long last – that i owe those people nothing and my choice now is laying down the rope with the rope-knots they are clutching – weighing me down – taking up space in my brain and heart. it’s way past time.

and so the honeysuckle’s appearance is like balm. new green. renewal. rejuvenation. a new season. a new cycle of growth.

it is a pioneer in the earliest spring, courageously greening when winter can still dash it, pummel it with ice and snow. but it has the promise of its history – when it has survived even with the change in season, even with threat of the challenge of weather. it both brings forward what it’s learned about survival and puts down the pain it has carried from past ropeknot instances in its life in the woods.

someone – just shy of five decades ago – told me i was dirt. it was meant to belittle me and scare me and it did.

i’ve just realized that i am. dirt. an honorable and basic part of this earth like every other living being. but i am also honeysuckle – and morning glory – and daisies – and peonies. i am house finches and black-capped chickadees and cardinals and march robins. i am poetry floating on the breeze and notes in sequence not yet captured. i am sun and moon and the horizon and the tide.

i am stardust on the edges of the trail, forward-peeking.

*****

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a changing sculpture. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

we were waiting in the examining room. i had a doctor’s appointment.

we were surrounded by beige and all manners of brown.

i said aloud, “if i had a doctor’s office, it would not be decorated or appointed in shades of beige and brown. it’s all rather flat and depressing.”

i suspect – for the same reason i said that about the office – you might say that about this photograph. you might even say that about this trail – for much of it is bathed in beige and brown, the reeds along the river, cattails, leafless trees, and dry underbrush populating the trailside.

but it’s different.

these shapes and textures are completely engaging. there has been a giving-over to nature, an organic timewornness that has taken place. and in this flower’s stead has been left a stunning sculpture, full of light and dark. you just have to see it.

in the new eyes i have since going slower, i feel drawn to each of these. i could be completely happy lingering on the trail, photographing one after another of these dried flowerheads, each distinct, each stunningly beautiful. the tall and stately, the rounded, the wishing seeds clinging to the rough edges after floating on the wind. so much life in so much fallow.

my sweet momma – at 93 – would look in the mirror to apply her lipstick. she’d frown and grimace, “i look like an old woman!” i’d assert the obvious – “well, momma, you are 93!” and then, looking into her blue eyes i’d tell her – “a beautiful old woman”. for it was those very wrinkles, those spots of age and wisdom and experiences, those eyes that told a million stories of love and pain, summit moments and disappointments that gave her the actual depth, the texture, the light and dark to BE beautiful.

i look in the mirror, glance down at my hands, get on the scale at the doctor’s office – i am a changing sculpture. i frown, i grimace.

and then i remember my sweet momma. and i remember the flowerhead on the side of the trail.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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a recognition. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

it was pretty sloggy. there was still snow on the trail. that which had melted from bright sunlight and milder temperatures made the trail muddy. very muddy. did i mention muddy?

we had on hiking boots that have uppers made of gortex. i am not crazy about my boots – i was attached to my last pair and don’t have a relationship with this pair, not yet, not even after so many miles. nevertheless, i must say that this pair kept my feet dry, which does make me a tad bit fond of them.

it was hard to stay quiet as we hiked – the sloshing sound of our boots on the path was undeniable: humans are here.

it was also hard on the legs. similar to walking in deep sand, it’s a different workout in mud and snow and ice.

we were about to turn around and head back home to a wee happy hour, but decided to keep on going a little longer.

we came up the rise and there they were, staring at us. two gorgeous deer, absolutely still. they blended into the fields, everything a seasoned shade of tan or brown.

we had eye contact – the lead deer and i. i whispered to it, trying to reassure it – even telepathically – that it was absolutely safe. we stood, watching each other.

eventually i slowly moved forward a bit, to take a picture closer-up. eventually, both deer bounded down the rise and across the trail, heading for the river.

and what a sight.

they carefully picked their way across the river, walking on the ice skillfully, even as i held my breath, hoping for their arrival on the other side.

and we just stood and watched.

i’m sure other things were going on around us – and beyond – as we stood and watched. i’m sure people elsewhere were moving about, the world had plenty of events – both extraordinary and horrific.

maybe as we stood there something big changed somewhere. maybe as we stood there nothing changed anywhere. the tilt of the axis, the spin of the earth just simply continued keeping on.

but – in us – we could feel it.

a connection with all other things living, a sense of longing for the safety of all – particularly those who and which are most vulnerable, and, once again – but never enough to consistently remember it every second of every day – a recognition of beauty and the transitory.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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EARTH INTERRUPTED mixed media 50.25″ x 41″

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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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the trail comes to us. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

ahhh….i miss this place.

as i write this, it is a feels-like of -41 degrees outside. the actual temperature is -14. we are staying inside.

this is one of the bends in the trail i really love. as we come around this outer perimeter of the trail – a section beyond which we have explored with good boots and warm weather – i know that the stand of pines is coming. and with those pines, the scent…

we stocked up before the big freeze. going to the supermarket is astonishing each time we go, so this time was no different. we had a list – and shopped to the list – though we did buy a small bag of cape cod chips not on the list – but it was still a small fortune. we didn’t want to have to go out to resupply in the frigid arctic blast.

not to mention the fact that this time – this time in this world – oddly and horrifyingly suspended – feels overwhelming.

it’s a little bit risky writing a post ahead of its publish date, particularly now. anything could happen, it seems. and we don’t want to seem – or be – tone-deaf.

in the moments of stepping away from all that is happening – and they are merely slight moments – we seek any source of reassurance, any source of comfort, any source of grounding. we try to get good sleep, eat well, drink water, exercise. we try to find things to laugh about, things that take us away from the chaos. we hug the dog. we listen – still – to george winston’s december album. we hike when we can. we plan distractions.

but we’ve cancelled some meaningful plans, things we had on our calendar for months. things we’d been looking forward to. it was disappointing to do so, but we recognized our limits – physical and emotional – and decided to be adult about it.

yesterday, sitting on the old deck glider in the living room, looking out the front window, i tried to reason with myself about it. cancelling plans and tickets and such is not just a nod to the weather or to our personal limits.

it is a deep sigh of the exhaustion we feel as we navigate – with the pummeled populace out there – the current world, the devastation we feel about our country, the shock our hearts register each and every day as we stay as plugged in as we can manage about everything that is happening – rapidly, with no brakes.

sometimes, i guess, one just has to stay still, to sit still, to stare out the window.

and sometimes the trail comes to us and wraps us in it, hoping to assuage our fears, to calm our hearts, to stoke our courage.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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