reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

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fog. [kerri’s blog on flawed wednesday]

dense fog.

inland, you wouldn’t know.

inland it is sunny and warm.

but here – on the coast of lake michigan – with very specific circumstances – we are socked in with fog. it rolled in on cloudy waves. it lingers in the trees and hangs over the street. it brings with it a damp cold – much different than a couple miles inland. the lakefront is its own weather system.

it was a foggy morning, soupy and grey. we put on extra layers. we left to hike one of our favorite river trails. it was sunny there – so much so that we were shedding those extra layers of clothing.

and, then, on that same day in the early evening, we watched the advection fog stake claim to the neighborhood again, just as it had done that morning and for the past mornings.

all the same day.

and so we sat in the quiet of the fog as it surrounded us, our home, our ‘hood.

and, just as we didn’t know what the people in the sun were doing, neither did they know we were sitting in a blanket of dense fog.

we don’t know what we don’t know.

but isn’t it our job – as humans living in nation-wide community with each other – to seek knowledge of the other? of others’ circumstances?

are we culpable for an awareness of other-ness?

if i am on the lakefront and you are inland, do i care about you, do you care about me?

is there a line – somewhere between the lake and inland or in this country – that divides the needs of the people? is there a line – somewhere between the north and the south, the east and the west – that divides the needs of the people? is there a line – of race, of ethnicity, of orientation, of birth circumstance, social ladder-climbing, status, society’s trappings – that divides the needs of the people? is there a line – somewhere between the haves and the have-nots or the have-it-alls and the have-nothings – that divides the needs of the people?

where is compassion? a sense of decency? of humanity?

there is – apparently – no line that is too low for what is happening in this country now.

how is it that people – real people – mean so little to this administration?

and i think about those people – humans – who are cheering this on. i wonder how they have been seduced.

have they read the bills, the laws, the executive orders, the project, the intentions?

do they realize that this is decimating our country – the same country that is their country?

do they even give a second to wondering how all this cruelty, greed, destruction, moral corruption is “great”?

is their lack of concern because it does not directly impact them…yet? do they even know if it does?

is their state of great glee because it’s sunny where they are right now?

do they know that weather systems are not static, that they travel and affect communities at will, that it could be them next?

how can they linger in their cold dense fog – oblivious and unconcerned?

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this FLAWED WEDNESDAY

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until breck. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

“if you would know strength and patience, welcome the company of trees.” (hal borland)

it was the first tree i have ever bought.

i know plenty of people who buy trees, spend lavishly on shrubs, bushes, flowers, on landscaping, have much knowledge about plants and flowers and such. but i – well, we – are neophytes in the gardening category.

my sweet momma loved plants, including outdoor plants around our house back on long island. but they were simple heritage plants – hostas and daylilies, hydrangea, four o’clocks. all easy to cultivate – and easy to transplant cuttings from friends. i don’t remember spending any of my growing-up years browsing nurseries with my parents while they tried to decide which new plants to purchase, with no regard to price tag. there was the occasional vegetable garden out back where the round above-ground pool had been and maybe a new houseplant or two but propagating by division was my momma’s way and, with a garden full of nostalgia-type plants, she instilled in me an appreciation for the simplest, for the less-is-more on-a-shoestring approach.

in my own planting through the years i have found that i have mimicked my momma’s style. cuttings from friends, transplanting excess from others’ gardens into my own, it has been gardening-on-a-budget. my purple iris, my lavender garden were from the gardens of dear friends. though stunning, they did not sustain long-term as my neighbor planted snow-on-the-mountain on the other side of the fence and it completely smothered my more delicate garden. our wild geranium came from the beautiful garden of a dear friend out east. our hostas and our daylilies and ferns spent some time rolling down third avenue in a wheelbarrow when another friend was paring down her over-producing garden. we did purchase the first of our ornamental grasses, but now they not only sustain but are capable of filling in many gaps in our garden by their own – or our – cultivating. we annually, now, purchase a few flowers in tiny packs from flats for pots – though the woman who bought five gorgeous big plants at $16.99 each in front of us did made me a little bit envious. each year, now, as you already know, we are also planting herbs on our potting stand – there is joy in stepping outside with snippers while cooking. all in all, there is minimal purchasing going on – which lines right up with minimal knowledge. what we do know is that we really love our gardens, simple as they are.

that brings me to trees. i cannot remember my parents purchasing trees while i was growing up. we lived in a wooded area and just enjoyed the trees with which we were gifted naturally. though as i write that i recall a dogwood tree out front to the left of the driveway. i wonder if that was a special tree that they bought…or maybe the mimosa tree out front with its beautiful pink fluff flowers….so maybe there was a tree or two….

i can, however, attest to the fact that i had never in my life purchased a tree to plant outdoors. not in new york, not in florida, not in new hampshire, not in wisconsin. neither has d. not in colorado, not in new mexico, not in california, not in texas, not in kentucky, not in washington, not in wisconsin. though we love trees, tree purchases have never survived the budget cuts. until breck.

outside the city market in breckenridge, colorado, the stand of trees had a big sign: “aspens – $9.99”.

$9.99??? for a tree??? one of our absolute favorite trees???

we purchased it before even checking to see if it would fit in littlebabyscion. and, because I’ve written about it before, you know the rest of the story. it’s now been almost 8 years since we brought breck home. we have held our breath, whispered quiet prayers, wrapped blankets around it, researched how to attain its best health. and through it all – living in a pot – and then a bigger pot – on the deck, disliking the shady fern garden into which we planted it – tucked next to the garage, and the big transplant to where it is now – it has not only patiently survived, but it has flourished. breck is now as tall as the side of the garage, as tall as the first story of the house. it seems happy and well-adjusted to its life in the ornamental grass garden, a spot for birds to linger, the object of our love.

maybe someday there will be a reason to buy another tree. we may have more space somewhere or more desire for shade or a wish for a stand of aspen or – the real factor – a bigger budget.

in the meanwhile, i feel incredibly content with our one tree purchase. breck is – obviously – ridiculously dear to us. it is a song of success in our simple backyard.

“trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky.” (kahlil gibran)

*****

NURTURE ME © 1995 kerri sherwood

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at home. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

a few years ago we watched a show about housing in the bay area of california. the housing crunch was producing outlandishly high rents, making it impossible for workers – particularly younger people at the outset of their careers – to live anywhere near where they worked. an answer – it seemed – was to offer sleeping pods – bunk bed pods stacked upon each other or next to each other – in a communal living space. with very mixed reviews to these confined space morsels, people moved in and made tiny personal space within communal living their home.

in the many years that our girl was working in the snow industry of the high elevation mountains, she – like every other professional snowboard or ski coach or instructor, every other industry worker from restaurants, boutiques, ski shops, etc – was faced with the impossible task of finding a place to live. costs far outweighed earnings and, so, either these dedicated employees shared spaces (often questionably-worthy of passing basic health standards) renting the rights to a bedroom and a shelf in the refrigerator or they drove extended commutes in all kinds of treacherous weather. it was nerve-wracking, to say the least, as a mom – ever concerned with the daily living conditions of her child (who was far more tolerant of the living conditions than i might have been). post-pandemic exacerbated these circumstances and rentals are scarce or aggressively priced.

for the longest time we have watched house hunters on hgtv. though there are many fix-up kinds of shows, our favorite is the basic house hunters where you watch people select a home to purchase from three homes you virtually-visit with them. you are aware that there have been many other homes considered before this ultimate decision, but you are steeped in the choice between three – with the information of their purchasing budget, their desired amenities and location and a walking tour through the house. it is astounding to us – over and over again – how much a basic house costs these days. we watch – totally immersed – and try to decide which house will be chosen, always blown away by what that choice will cost the buyers.

and each day – for a multitude of reasons – we thank our own home. its old house juju suits us. it is our sanctuary. it looks like us, feels like us, buffets us from the world and renews us. every one of its quirks – that we love – reminds us to love our own quirks. every one of its tiny beauties reminds us of our own tiny beauties. we find peace there and we find a jumping-off place for challenges and self-exploration.

and as i write this, i am aware that – if we are lucky enough to have any physical place we call home – we each make it into what we need. we embrace whatever its circumstance, its location, its imperfection or perfection. we find the space where we feel comfort and reassurance and the ability to be exactly who we are.

some day we would love to travel in an old vw minibus (or one of those amazing converted vans our son-in-law creates), carrying with us all we need for extended periods of time, seeking home in high mountains and canyonlands, deserts or meadowlands, atlantic or pacific beaches, northern forests.

some day we would love to thru-hike one of the national trails, carrying all we need in backpacks on our backs.

either way, i’m pretty certain – even now, even before we have tried either dream – we will feel at home, at peace, in our skin.

“remember, the entrance door to the sanctuary is inside you.” (rumi)

*****

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in an insane world. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

in an insane world, barney is sane.

barney has been stalwart, steadfast, unwaveringly standing in the garden through every infamous weather challenge – the rain, the sleet, the snow, the ice and the wind, the extreme heat, the drought.

it is one of the most gorgeous things in our backyard. we have watched it age, its wrinkles, its furrows, its jowls. we have watched it struggle to stay young, fresh, shellacked. we have watched it give in – to time and the elements. and, in that giving-in-ness, we have watched grace in real life.

in this insane world, i have thanked our old house and its painted-wood countertops, its old floors, its cracked plaster, its doorknob-less six panel doors. i have admired the tile floor in the bathroom and the way light streams in through the double-hungs. i have relished the paintings on our walls and the fabulous chunks of concrete that serve our living room. i have whispered to our house and i have thanked its familiarity and its comfort. i have taken refuge in its security. i have reveled in our comforter, our dogga at our feet, coffee by our side, happy lights. i have simplified need and put want to the side.

in this insane world, i have patted littlebabyscion as i get in and out, stroked big red as i have walked past it in the driveway. i have noted with great appreciation the wild geranium and the day lilies pushing up through cold dirt, the buds on breck. i have sat on adirondack chairs on the deck – still a bit bundled up – watching birds and squirrels, sipping wine and eating maybe too many chips. i have been grateful.

and i have gazed at barney-the-piano, over there, in the garden. i have felt it steadying me.

in this insane world, i have thanked barney.

“pardon my sanity in a world insane.” (emily dickinson – and barney)

*****

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build the cairns. [kerri’s blog on flawed wednesday]

and 66 years ago today my sweet momma anxiously awaited her very next day – the day she would have surgery and i would be born. i’m grateful for her courage to have another child – even after almost a decade had gone by. i’m grateful for her bravery knowing there would be a caesarean section and recuperation, discomfort. i’m grateful for her fortitude to have me, even though she was older than most other moms having babies. and so, on that next day, i found my way home – into the air and the sun, a place of dandelions and daffodils.

home is sometimes elusive. we watch many people chase it on house hunters, seeking big and new and granite-y and double-sinked and updated and maintenance-free. we look around us – in our living room under a furry throw – at our old plaster walls, wood floors and the et al of a 1928 house – and we express gratitude. we are not chasing home. we are there. we have found each other and that – that very thing – has brought us home.

it is rare that we must follow cairns while hiking, as we are not in the backcountry as much as we wish to be. but if it is that one day we thru-hike long trails, then we will follow stacks of rocks to help us find our way. we will count on them as guideposts.

during this time of utter chaos in our country, we are not recognizing things and people around us – near and far – as the home we have understood. we are astounded by the fast changes and the cheering squad supporting the overturning of goodness. the guideposts of normal have disappeared, the landmarks are skewed. wise cairns have been demolished. we are disoriented.

we took a walk along the lakefront in our ‘hood. right over by the beach house where we had the food truck, daisy cupcakes and bonfire of our wedding, there was a path down to the beach. we took it.

oftentimes, there are cairns on this sand – beautiful towers of lakefront rocks – standing tall off the edge of the surf. but there were no cairns.

so we built one.

a pilgrimage point. a token reminder – we are here. we have found our way.

we are home. and we will find our way through the rest. together.

****

read DAVID’s thoughts this FLAWED WEDNESDAY

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nothing like it. [kerri’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab.]

it is a tough time to travel. at least for me. i feel – well – safer at home these days. tucked into our sweet old house doing our thing.

but we had an opportunity to visit old friends, see new things, experience a different landscape. and we were fortunate enough to be able to take it.

this place we have traveled to – beautiful. another part of this stunning sea to shining sea. we move about airports with thousands of people – all different – with languages and accents and clothing choices and faces all swimming around us. such diversity. we can feel the riches of this melting pot.

and we miss home. where our dogga waits for us and 20 has dinner hot. where our studios and our pillows are. where no make-up and sweats are a default. where we sous-chef and cook side by side in our old kitchen, nourishing not just our bodies but our souls as well.

it doesn’t take new eyes to see it all. but the gentle reminder is always a good thing.

to go and come back.

nothing like it.

“the real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.” (marcel proust)

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

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in the overlook. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

i pulled off quickly – into a small lot overlooking the lake – because i knew that it would soon cease to be there – this striping of snowy beach, lake, storm, clouds and sky. soon it would disappear – maybe in moments – this differentiation of color – this horizon – soon it would become mostly gray. soon the textures would blend and it would become flat.

i am – we are – in the middle – once again – of a big attempt to clean out. thirty-five plus years of accumulation is a lot to go through and re-organize, donate, discard. every single thing takes longer than you might think. and, frankly, i am not anxious to go through it faster, to flatten it all out into neat-and-tidy in as short a time as possible.

i actually want to see all the textures of all this time. i am – figuratively – pulling off into the overlook so that i might gaze and reflect, remember and feel.

already, i’ve come upon surprises. already, i’ve been given a chance to remember tiny details i had forgotten. already, i’ve danced through children’s books and old vcr tapes, cassettes from the 70s and scraps of lyrics tucked deep in desk drawers. there is much to be done, but i’m in no rush. our focus will mostly be right here – in this era of national upheaval – and we will take our sweet time.

“everything takes so much longer than you think,” stating the obvious, i looked over at d, immersed in his own tasks of our cleaning-out.

“that’s ok,” he replied.

“yeah,” i sighed. “no need to rush,” a promise to go slow.

there’s plenty of time for neat and tidy, organized and pared down.

in the meanwhile, the textures of decades are on the horizon. in closets. in the basement. in the attic.

and i am in the overlook.

*****

THE WAY HOME © 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood

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

when he came over for dinner a few days ago he asked when we were going to take down the holiday decorations. “sheesh!” i said. “it’s barely over!”

truth of the matter is that i love the light and spirit of the holiday decorations. the intermingling of the everyday with the celebration of divine. even so, we will – soon – take down the Christmas tree, all the little trees, the ornaments. we may leave a few crystals up for a while. and, definitely, the happy lights stay. there is nothing wrong with keeping light and real-life intermingled.

pine branches on the trail always get my attention. there are sections of our trail that just have a glorious scent. those spots instantly take me back to a favorite hike in the colorado mountains – where we hike through a pine forest alongside a brook that meanders down the mountain. funny how scents do that.

it’s like any time there is the slightest bit of salt in the air i am back at the beach where i processed most of my teenage years, back in the sand where i walked winter, spring, summer, fall.

the rolling-around of the new year prompts much memory-exploring. i can’t help but think of holidays past, of decades of new years turning, of resolutions and wishes, of sadnesses and hopes for new, times of tucking away the holiday and times of leaving it all up longer than ever.

for right now, the snowy pine needles nudged me to keep it all up. for a few more days. intermingled. to stretch the magic it creates a little bit longer.

*****

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

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the fog is waiting. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

because we started late – not in our 20s or 30s or even 40s – much stuff was already in place – things like couches, tables, cozy chairs, cabinets, dressers, lamps, appliances – and we didn’t have to start from scratch.

but – as our time together has moved on – in our adding and deleting – we have chosen certain pieces to bring into our life together and we have celebrated those pieces in the space we share.

this past summer we added this handmade metal piece, placing it in the garden with the grasses, loving the way it played with light and shadow. much like the chunk of concrete in our living room or the vintage suitcases scattered in our home, it was a small purchase but it was something we knew would spend some time with us, tracking through seasons.

it’s foggy this morning. dense fog, i imagine it has invisibilized the lake. it’s pulling us.

today is a day to walk…outside. the quiet will envelop us as we hike in the woods and process these days – days for which we all make so many preparations, days that go by so quickly, seasons that carry those we love through and through into next and next, ever so swiftly. time does not stand still, does not wait for our witness, and the moments slip through our fingers much like we will slip through the fog.

we sit, under a blanket and not yet ready to go out, marveling at the perfection and the evanescence, the yearning and the satisfaction of time. we hold onto this moment of this minute of this hour of this day of this season – where we are warmed by a quilt, where can see each other typing, where we can hear the deep sleeping breaths of dogga right here. i try to memorize it.

and as we look out the window, to our barney aging – one moment, the next moment – we can see he is still grinning from the eve bonfire gathering, as only an aging piano in the backyard can grin. we are happy to see the ring of adirondack chairs and the vestiges of luminaria. and we admire the fleeting beauty of just a bit of snow left on top the coneflower.

the fog is waiting for us.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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on this christmas day. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

it was the title that touched me: “staggering generosity”.

i opened the email a few days ago, a newsletter i hadn’t opened in quite some time. these words have been with me ever since: “don’t just love. astonish people with your love. don’t just dabble in generosity. live a life of staggering generosity.” (paul wesselmann – ripples)

in cleaning my studio this week i found a pocket-sized calendar my sweet momma sent me in 2007. there was a quote on the first page: “may you live all the days of your life.” (jonathan swift)

this day – each day – all the days.

tonight when the house was quiet again, we sat in the living room with the lights off. e.e. (our christmas tree) and our big branches were the only things illuminating the room. sitting in the glow, we were both lost in thought – steeped in gratitude – about this holiday, about this time, about these days.

i could feel the glimmer in the room. a vibration. palpable. like the fingertips of the universe brushing my skin. astonishing. and staggering. what better day than today?

and then we unplugged all the happy lights – ready to sleep on this christmas day.

*****

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

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