reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: impression


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two tiny parts. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

i am – truly – not quite sure how we would survive without this trail.

it offers sanity in a world that seems to be losing its very center. it offers quiet in a world noisy with horrific news. it offers peace in a country that doesn’t seem to understand peace any longer.

we breathe on this trail.

we talk about other things – projects and dreams.

we get lost in our own thoughts.

we – know – in the way nature makes clear – we are simply two tiny parts in a big whole.

blogsites supply some analytics about your blogposts. wordpress can tell us which posts are viewed, how many views, how many visitors we have, their countries of origin. the site, however, is not totally protected against bots, so some of the information – when the numbers seem exponential – is obviously generated by non-human sources. there are moments i laugh – or sigh – and say things to d like, “wow. like they have nothing better to do in name-a-country than to sit around reading reverse threading, eh?” i know better. my words are not likely to assuage – or even be the vaguest bit interesting – to people in dire circumstances, in countries full of upheaval or war, in places where trying to find just a bit of food is paramount. i am humbled by people who are in such drastic conditions or situations.

we have a thing about our shadows. and our feet, too, truth be told. there are many photographs on my camera that depict our shadows or our feet in a wide array of places. “we’ve been here,” i feel like these say.

it’s like a footprint. though the prints and tracks around us in this picture will fade with snow or rain or other prints and tracks, they will never really go away. the imprint will always remain part of the texture of the path, a part of the fabric of the trail.

i feel like our shadows are the same. though the moment the clouds move across and block the sun, the moment the sun dips below the horizon, the moment we move on – our shadows seemingly disappear. yet, something in me feels that they actually remain. our shadows – like the shadows of deer crossing the path to find shelter in the bramble, the shadows of hawks and a bald eagle or two above, the shadows of squirrels scurrying or horses elegantly cantering through, even the shadows of fuzzy caterpillars making their way – they all remain part of the many layers of what has existed, what has passed by, what remains in the energy of that place.

there are people imperiled in every corner of our world and there are people honing cruel skill at the denigration of others. there are people thriving in closely-held self-actualized dreams and there are people burdened with feelings of failure. there are people who are always the helpers and people who hostage-take others’ well-being. we all add to the energy of the world.

i feel like i really would like to do my best to make sure my shadow adds even the tiniest bit of goodness to the vibrating atoms of this world. being outside reminds me of the evanescence of it all, the transitory of us.

*****

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what endures. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

when it fell from the tree, i doubt that this small branch envisioned any impression its fall might make. i doubt that it held any thought of impact, for it was suddenly a singular, solitary branch, away from other like branches, away from its tree. i doubt it held any real future in its mind’s eye. it just fell.

but the snow was soft and fluffy and the branch, falling from higher on the tree, fell with just enough oomph to sink into that snow, to carve out its shape, to lay still in a casting of itself.

and even if the wind had blown and lifted up the browned leaves of the tiny branch, which – in turn – lifted and blew the tiny branch out of its molded-snow-home and it ended up no longer right there – on the trail – in front of me, it would still have left its mark.

i passed by it. and in my passing by, i saw it.

i don’t know how many others passed by this branch lodged into the snow. i don’t know if anyone else noticed it, looked at it, photographed it.

but i do know that it made an impression on me. and i remember it.

and oh, that ever-percolating ancient question of legacy, of what endures.

it would do us each good – particularly in these times and in this place – to keep that in mind. the dimmest impression – though maybe even vague, even amorphous or indistinguishable – is still an impression. it may still be remembered. it still counts. it was there. it remains there in the continuum of time.

what impression do we want to cast?

*****

BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL © 1996 kerri sherwood

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castings. [two artists tuesday]

back in the day, when i was a small child, we laid shells in sand cavities we had carefully dug out of the beach, filled in plaster of paris and a little water and made sculptures, castings of shapes. mine was a fish. not a very good fish, i might add, but a fish nonetheless. my brother made an anchor and my sister made a seahorse. the castings instantly came to mind when we passed by this leaf impression in the snow.

soon, others would walk on the trail and it is likely that their footprints covered the leaf. or, possibly, the sun came out and the edges of the leaf – so clear on our passing – melted. i don’t know. what counted is that the leaf was there when we passed by.

the last time i sat by my brother’s side, he told me a few stories about being my big brother. i still remember how that felt. his words – a little fuzzier, with a little less clarity – echo in the bank of memories i have, my heart ever-full, his little sister. though the impression has melted a bit with the thirty years of sun since he died, it is no less profound than it ever was.

even if it doesn’t look quite like a fish – or a leaf – each impression is actually indelible and its invisible sculpture takes up a tiny space in our hearts and minds. castings you can look at any time you want.

kind of makes you want to make sure each moment is worthy of plaster of paris, a few shells and a little time to cure.

*****

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indelible. [d.r. thursday]

indelible. the way of impressionable cement, not-yet-set or after much falling rain. the new sidewalk around the corner and down the street will forever look like autumn to me. until the impression of fallen leaves fades, i will always think of fall and raking leaves and stoked bonfires in the cool night air.

indelible. the way of scent. the whiff of a beloved’s cologne or perfume and you are catapulted in time to shared space with that person. the aroma of a certain cake in the oven or simmering sauce on the stove or how rye toast makes me think both of my sweet momma and my grandmother mama dear. the way walking through even a tiny pine forest both brings back the tall pines of florida and the sparkling air of colorado high mountain forest.

indelible. the way of taste. how you know exactly what a hot chocolate chip cookie tastes just out of the oven, without having one. how you anticipate that first cup of coffee in the morning. how you roll around the werther’s caramel and other times and places flit through your mind.

indelible. the way of color. how army green makes me think of the vietnam jacket my brother-in-law gave me. or how there’s a certain red that makes me think of moab and the high desert. how rich black makes me think of my piano. how blue makes me think of one of my sweet nieces and purple makes me think of the other. how pink is now a color my sister is rocking. how black and white together make me think of our babycat.

indelible. the way of sound. the seagulls in the air make me think of home – long island beaches – the surf pulls at me. bluejays bring me immediately back to my growing-up back yard. loons and i am up-north, hanging out with the gang. the sound of john denver music and the list of images in my mind’s eye grows; his music has accompanied me near and far. the echo of a sustain pedal takes me to quiet stages and dark theatres, practicing, a concert in the offing. the train at night, likely to always make me think of laying in bed, here, at home. the foghorn, the same.

indelible. the way of touch. the sensation of petting our dogdog. of holding hands. of scuffing feet in fallen leaves. of the cold water of a stream running over my feet – instantly transported to an aspen brook, hidden way back on trail. the certain way someone hugs, the one-in-a-million dna of that hug.

indelible. the way of first impressions. we have this chance many times a day. the first impression we have on the cashier or associate at the store, the first impression we have on the person walking the other way on the sidewalk, the first impression we have with the person on the other end of the phonecall, the first impression we have with strangers and, i suppose, those close to us each new day. and more, intimately, close-in, how we start our days. the indelible way we come home. how we greet each other. with joy or abstracted, aloof.

i saw a video of a young woman, a social worker steeped in education and research, speaking about how she learned a simple lesson about relationship from her dog. each day, each and every time, she would return home and her dog would be filled with zealous and passionate happiness at seeing her. she had no doubt about its love of her and how it felt when it saw her. dogdog jumps higher than the back doorknob every time we come home, with ardent wagawag. yes. important to remember as we see our beloveds, our family, our friends. the impressions we give them.

they are indelible.

this branch of leaves will eventually fade from this sidewalk square. but i know i’ll keep remembering these leaves as we pass this spot, enduring till they are the lightest light and blend, disappearing, into the cement.

i hope that i will remember that my impression is also indelible. first impression, every impression. even as i blend into the cement.

good lessons from rye toast. good lessons from our dogs. good lessons from the leaves.

*****

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EARTH INTERRUPTED V: 53″ X 29″

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