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the way of the dandelion. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

aaaaaah.

no one really prepares you.

every single bit of the dandelion that is you is unprepared for the flight of the fluffy feathery pappus of the puffball off and beyond.

though the flight of these filaments is your ultimate goal – to give lift to these children who have merely been loaned to you for a time – their jet-stream-like flight takes you by surprise, leaves you a little breathless and a little astounded as you watch them fly, dispersed by the wind. your hearts – the extra ones that were birthed in you at the time of their arrival – clench a little in the moment of their departure, wonder at the very, very big change in how you are then defined in the world.

and you realize, perhaps, that you suddenly understand how your own sweet momma (and dad) felt. the moment they retired and moved. the moment you moved away, likely to not return to live in their locale again. the moment you no longer stop by at any old time. the moment it required more planning, more travel, more arrangements to see each other.

and you try to adjust – your little dandelion heart works hard to put it all into perspective, to recognize the natural order of things, to grok that this is the way of the universe – birth, growth, independence. it is the way of the dandelion. as beautiful as it was, the yellow flower was not the pinnacle; the puffball is essential for these amazing children to go, to become, to make their mark on the world, to change things for all time.

but that same little dandelion heart sometimes just aches a little – for the days they were satisfied with lap-sitting and book-reading together, or the days you endlessly shopped together, or the days you sat on the sidelines of their game or their match or their race or their concert or their recital, or the days you simply were together – sharing space and time – sharing time in the same space.

i knew my own momma was my biggest fan – despite any disagreement we might have had along the way. she was the cheerleader of my life in the same way that i carry pompoms for my own children, in all their sharing of steep summits and challenges and bliss and angst. they will always be the first thing i think of in the morning and the last thing at night as i tuck them in with whispered prayers i poof to them like blown kisses or – maybe – like dandelion pappus in the breeze.

time will keep moving and i can feel it now.

“it’s friday again,” i look at d.

“and it’s june,” he replies.

wow.

and my grown children keep growing – in their own physical, concentric worlds. and i keep going – in mine. and when those two worlds meet – when they bump up against each other and sit still for a spell – my dandelion heart is ecstatic.

*****

FISTFUL OF DANDELIONS © 1999 kerri sherwood

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the weirder, the better. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

“you are a child of the universe. no less than the trees and the stars, you have a right to be here.” (desiderata)

i don’t suppose i ever really fit in. i was the youngest in my family – separated by a decade – while most of my friends had siblings their own age. i grew up in a neighborhood where the kids were somehow athletically gifted, while i took organ and piano lessons and sat in my tree writing poetry. an early entrepreneur, i pulled a wagon around our neighborhood selling baby cactus cuttings and candles i had made. i didn’t go to – or get invited to – wild parties or cut class or skip my homework. i took bike-hikes and walked on the beach in the winter while everyone was at the mall or the bowling alley or the movies. i didn’t listen to the stones or grateful dead or led zeppelin (with the exception, of course, of stairway to heaven – everyone’s prom theme). i listened to john denver and gordon lightfoot and the carpenters. i wore off-brand clothing and didn’t keep up with fashion trends. my momma bought me less expensive boy-pants and found the offbeat stores for shoes-that-look-like-trendy-shoes-but-are-not, like my cherished construction boots. my first car was my dad’s vw beetle, nothing fancy but beloved. i had numerous part-time jobs through high school and then in college and knew the joy of serving corn flakes to both me and my dog missi for dinner. i never thought of myself as weird. but i suppose – if one considers the definition “may have unusual habits, interests or ways of thinking that set them apart” it could be true. i don’t see that as negative, though i also suppose that – depending on the way you see yourself fitting into the world – one might consider it such.

so the sticker “stay weird” hung upside down and backwards made me laugh aloud. somehow my laughter summoned mary oliver and she and i enjoyed a good chuckle about the infinite extraordinary of the insignificant and the everyday, the value of seeing the usual through a filter of unusual.

weird took a very long hiatus – it was safer, less vulnerable, and kept me out of trauma i had shelved. i pursued the inevitability of having to make money, to help support a household in a more meaningful way than the way of an artist. for this society – though its love for the arts is profound, its support of the arts is less so.

it was after my children were born, after the imperative was too loud to ignore, after the perils shushed a bit – when it was time to start releasing music. writing, practicing, recording, performing, marketing, booking, hawking – none of this is necessarily standard-work fare – it is unusual, it is tenuous, it requires a bit of courage. it doesn’t have the same parameters as a workday in corporate or structured america. it has no guarantees of reward, no regular paycheck. it is steeped in personal challenges, the need to be scrappy and the sisu to put it out there.

in the time that was the heyday of my recording career i would call absolutely anyone, regardless of their position. as the owner/artist of my label i have talked directly to vice presidents of sales of barnes and noble and borders books and music, owners of publishing houses, the personal managers of ridiculously successful recording/performing artists. i’ve sat in j. peterman’s messy office chatting (of the j.peterman catalog and seinfeld fame) and in the spare chair of radio program directors. i’ve danced across the stage at qvc-tv under a disco ball and played songs live over phone conferences with oncological pharma higher-ups. i’ve stood in the rain on flatbeds playing, embraced boom mics over my piano on theatre stages of all sizes, sang in front of 35000 people in support of cancer survivorship in central park. pushing the boundaries, carrying a little chutzpah along with belief in my own artistry was everyday life – and necessary. and i’d remind myself each time i picked up the phone or stepped into the unknown the very fact that we all breathe in and out the same way. this thing we have in common, i would tell myself – breathing. surely i could connect on that most basic of levels.

as outside the conventional box as it all seems, i didn’t feel weird. i felt in my skin.

and so, apparently, the weird continues. we know we are different than others. we have a certain run-and-jump into vulnerability that others do not. we have a certain pull towards creating, experimenting, learning – all in the public eye. we share because we have to, not because anyone has to receive it.

so, yes, the “stay weird” sticker really spoke to me.

though my life – and our life – is quite a bit different than the traditional lives or retirements of lovely people we know and care about, it is somehow just right for us. i never forget the corn flakes and he never forgets the sleeping bag in his studio space. every everything counts and we are reflexively careful about not being frivolous. for us, weird has granted us a certain appreciation of the littlest things, honoring simplicity and leftover pasta, redundant black thermal shirts and a shared bin of socks, used notebooks and repurposing taken to a new level.

what one does with one’s “wild and precious life”*…

the weirder, the better.

*****

(*mary oliver)

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fervent fern. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

they unfurled from their tiny seahorse stage into real-live ferns in what seemed like moments. all of a sudden, there they were – a whole corner garden of ferns. so incredibly green. lush.

but – even in their zealous and prolific growth – they are fragile. their fronds fall victim to the wind or the dogga’s curiosity, and they are knocked over, with – seemingly – no chance of revival. it seems – perhaps – safer to be in the middle of the bunch of ferns in the garden, rather than on the outskirts.

and i find myself nodding my head, as any artist might nod her head. yes. indeed. safer to be in the middle than on the outskirts, than life as an outlier.

when i finally felt safe enough – when the imperative was too much to ignore any longer – for me to pursue my own artistry – to leave the middle – i knew it was a different route. it would not be the interstate to success. instead, it would be a challenge to stay upright – to keep reaching – when the perils of the outskirts were plentiful.

i knew i should have kept on the road earlier, but there were things that precluded me – that hushed me – and i largely put aside that desperate voice inside of me begging to come back out – the one i had quashed so many years – decades – prior.

but the tiny seahorse fern in me didn’t give up. it kept nagging me until it was finally ok to face the perils.

and i began to write – with the fervency of the ferns in our back garden. my piano was never silent. i kept unfurling, reaching to the sun – an artist coming out of fallow.

and there was music. and more music. the compositions, the songs, the albums populated the garden rapidly – there was much time for which to make up. stages and boom mics and product boxes were the accoutrements of my life. and i could only imagine – and still wonder – what might have happened had it all started earlier, had i fronded in earlier life.

it remains a mystery.

even now – in which the unsuspected and life have mown down some of the outer fronds – there is a core, a center of gravity that holds the fern-muse.

though fragile on the exterior, we are never really broken to the core. there is still time – there is healing, there is a new spring.

there is a fern garden ripe for more ferns.

*****

WATERSHED © 2004 kerri sherwood

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we are two chickadees. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

last year a black-capped chickadee returned over and over to this old barnwood birdhouse on our tree. each time it balanced on the the hole and pecked at the edges all around the entrance to the house. we wondered if – perhaps – it was not quite big enough for this bird and its intentions to build a nest. it worked at it – diligently – finessing the birdhouse as it could, enlarging the entrance and pecking off the sharp edges. but it did not end up nesting there.

this year two black-capped chickadees return over and over to this birdhouse on our tree. this year they carry in supplies – long strands of ornamental grasses, bits of branches and leaves. we believe that – this year – there is a nest inside this birdhouse. we hope we are right, for the idea of baby birds just off the patio – in this sweet birdhouse – makes us a little bit giddy. together these chickadees have made a home, taking turns with the chores of preparation and standing vigil, keeping it all safe from harm. we stay hopeful that there will be babies and that this sweet bird-family will endure all the hardships of nature and the passing of time.

yesterday was the 43rd anniversary of my (first) wedding.

i think back to the preparations and nesting through the years, as we worked together – successfully and not – as a couple and then as parents of two beloved children. like the chickadees, we had no guarantees – we just worked at it, best we could.

i look back – as we all might do – and see the moments in time we might have done better, might have made different choices, might have pecked at the edges of the entrance to our house instead of other things we did – things that would have finessed our home in lieu of harming it in some way or another. but we are human and our failings are as numerous as our triumphs. it is easier now – years later – to offer generous grace to our best attempts, despite how it all turned out. our two children are good people in the world – making their way in work, in their own passions, in love.

i am grateful for those years. i am grateful to have married a man back then who also tried his best to build a life together. as in any relationship, we brought different baggage with us – some of which was surmountable, some of which made life challenging. we started out pretty young. time has smoothed out the edges – pecking off the sharp parts – and what remains is softer, gentler, accepting. it is with deep affection that i now tell the tales of our thirty years together.

d and i met twelve years ago now – after six months of being daily email penpals. this year will celebrate the 10th anniversary of our wedding on a warm and sunny october day.

we have done our share of edge-pecking. we have finessed our home and stood vigil for each other. we have shared in the hardships of nature and the passing of time – for that – the passing of time – seems exponentially fast starting later in life. we have been fortunate and we work at it, best we can.

i am grateful for these years. i am grateful to have married a man who is also trying his best to build a life together. as in any relationship, we brought different baggage with us – some of which has been surmountable, some of which made or makes life challenging. we started out later in middle age. but time smooths out the edges – pecking off the sharp parts – and what remains is softer, gentler, accepting. it is with deep affection that i tell the tales of our life together. it is with humble and immense gratitude that i look into the future with him.

there is no telling what chickadees may do in life. but they seem to realize the very preciousness of it as they zealously prepare and tend their life together with another chickadee. sometimes they stay with the same mate all their lives. and sometimes they don’t. either way, chickadees have strong pair bonds – which is the very best we can all do for each other.

*****

GRATEFUL © 2004 kerri sherwood

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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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your place in the sun. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

“cause every day invites you to find your place in the sun…” (pablo cruise – a place in the sun – cory lerios, bud cockrell)

it’s a lot.

these times are a lot.

we venture out of the mind-boggling absorption of what’s really happening out there every now and then. and sit in the sun. or browse plants and flowers at the nursery. or take to the trail. or pet the dogga.

because we all need a break from it at some point, this devastation that wracks our hearts…just a few tiny moments away from thinking about it.

the rest of life is going on. people are working and sleeping, having babies and leaving this earth, healing and fighting disease with all their might, doing real life. right smack in the middle of horrific – – real life.

and sometimes that is enough.

really.

enough.

the rest of all of it is just too much.

“…well, everybody’s heart needs a holiday some time…”

*****

PEACE © 2004 kerri sherwood

read DAVID’s thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

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gnarly. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

“ooh child, things are gonna get easier

ooh child, things’ll get brighter

ooh child, things are gonna get easier

ooh child, things’ll get brighter

some day, yeah, we’ll put it together and we’ll get it undone

some day when your head is much lighter

some day, yeah, we’ll walk in the rays of a beautiful sun

some day when the world is much brighter…”

(“ooh child” – stan vincent 1970 the five stairsteps)

it is hard for me to avoid. i simply cannot help it. or maybe i just can’t resist the impulse.

we play rummikub every monday and thursday with 20 after we share dinner together. and – every single time – something one of them – d or 20 – says, makes me break into song.

we were talking about the obvious – you know – the state of our country. it was in an unusual fit of optimism. it was right after we talked about bernie sanders and aoc and the pushback of intellectually woke people against authoritarianism etc etc etc (i know you hear that line now – from the king and i – uh-huh, uh-huh – etc etc etc).

it had been a week since we had seen 20 (which is also unusual) and much had happened – on both sides – so there was a lot to talk about.

in that week we had found a different trail. it wound its way through a rural landscape and we enjoyed its newness. and then there was this tree. one sturdy old gnarly oak in the forefront of a blank field. stunning. perhaps a hundred years old. perhaps more. its silhouette against the sky so intense, strikingly gnarly in a good way.

we have such an appreciation for these lands of space through which we hike. we have hiked out east, down south, out west, up north. we’ve hiked in county parks, state parks, national parks. we dream of thru-hiking one day on one of the national trails. we hold these places in high regard, grateful for the glorious beauty, the potential for peacefulness, the celebration of the wild.

and so our conversation of late and of that night – of course – is also about the threat to these places (in addition to all the other gnarly-extremely-twisted corrupt threats of the administration too long to list or even grok in any conscience-based way.) we talked about our new forest preserve hike and we talked about national parks. and it feels sickening inside to think of the decimation of any of this. and all for the wealth of the wealthiest.

in the middle of our rummikub game – me…stuck with gnarly chips – a double of black 13s and a double of 1s and the grasp of the plastic trophy seeming bleak – and in the middle of the accompanying punctuations of news-chaos-of-the-day conversation – it suddenly came to mind, rose to the top.

the song ooh child was written about times of strife.

i started singing.

and hoping.

that some day we – this broken country – will put it together and get it undone. and then we’ll walk in the rays of a beautiful sun – when the world is much brighter.

they rolled their eyes, poking fun at the records spinning in my brain. and, for a few minutes, we all laughed.

and then the lyrics sank in…

…sigh.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

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every little thing. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

“the sun is coming out,” i told him. “i can hear it on the siding.”

it will be the littlest things, i believe. the smallest details, the tiniest noticings that will help us personally get through this. much of what seems to be planned for the populace will affect us. according to project 2025 – aka this ugliest administration’s agenda – we are those people. we are the masses.

with no idea how low this will go – though we suspect “hellish” may not suffice as an adjective – we will need to zero in on that which might bring a moment of light, a bit of joy, a sliver of hope.

and it’s only been 43 days, 1 hour, 43 minutes and 23 seconds since the inauguration (as i write this.). by the time this publishes it will be 45 days, 18 hours.

if we can assume that there will be another inauguration – and that seems a large assumption considering how far down the authoritarian hellhole we are being flung – it will be in 1417 days, 22 hours, 14 minutes and 8 seconds (as i write this), 1415 days, 18 hours by the time this publishes.

that’s a very long time. and a lot of hell between here and there.

i am holding a lot of stress in my body right now. merely blowing my hair dry this morning yielded a strained back intercostal muscle, making it hard to breathe. each day there is something that makes it intensely clear that i am not relaxed, the least of which is waking up achy every morning – even after a full night’s sleep. i trust i am not alone in this. we are all enduring serious worry and anxiety, raging anger, intense grief, raw fear. there is no real way for our minds or hearts or bodies to escape it.

but we try.

and in looking for the most meditative time, in looking for joy, in holding onto laughter and playfulness best as we can, in paying attention to the beauty right around us, we will seek out anything and everything that might help, any sign of comfort, any inkling of something positive.

so when i could hear the siding creaking – a sure sign that the sun was coming out from behind the clouds, it seemed apt to mention it.

because every little thing counts right now.

*****

TAKING STOCK copyright 2010 kerri sherwood

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the imperative of peace. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

dreamy.

many other adjectives came to mind to eloquently describe lake tahoe, but dreamy seems to fit the best right now.

in the way that sometimes happens with monumental beauty, i instantly felt a sense of peace descend over me…exactly what i needed.

for this has been a time. and i – like you – am filled to the brim, yearning for something different, something that builds up and does not tear down, something that is positive, filled with grace and not negative and filled with hatred. already, this is all exhausting. already, i am exhausted. we – all of us – have lost so much. and, though hopefully this will change – something will stop this destruction of our sea to shining sea – things will never be the same. betrayal has left its mark on us.

and so, the sight of this lake in the distance, as we approached, up close and personal, was balm for my spirit and i felt it wash over me.

some places are like that. you instantly feel a kinship with the vista, grounded by its simple, natural beauty. after all, this is merely mountains, forest and lake. nothing manufactured, nothing contrived, quietude with the potential for a tranquility that is so very powerful.

we do not live near this stunning landscape, but we do live in a landscape of our own. and i know that we must look to it for salve, for soothing us, for a balance of goodness against all the evil being perpetrated upon our country. clearly, we need to deal with the reality of what is happening here. clearly, we need to rejuvenate from the reality of what is happening here.

i think we need do that any which way we can.

there is a lot ahead of us. everything we have known is grotesquely distorted and people we have known have actively participated in that. it is the stuff of bad dreams. and we each are waking up to the horror of it all. as we brush the real-life nightmare from our eyes and wake to another day of fighting to keep our democracy, it is incumbent upon us to bring strength and resolve and a bit of peace from which we might draw these.

we will be looking everywhere we can for that peace, to join with it. it is an imperative.

“now he walks in quiet solitude the forests and the streams / seeking grace in every step he takes / his sight has turned inside himself to try and understand / the serenity of a clear blue mountain lake…” (john denver – rocky mountain high)

*****

PEACE © 2004 kerri sherwood

read DAVID’s thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

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rusted. but still. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

the galvanized metal coneflower tucked into the little garden with the ornamental grasses has rusted. we brought it home in july when it was silver and shiny. but the elements of weather have already gotten to it and have erased the shiny and smooth, turning it to a rougher texture, a warm brown color, like the center of a sunflower or the color of freshly ground coffee.

i still love it though, this coneflower.

its shape has been inspiring out back there in its little garden – the same garden that protects baby bunnies and tucks in our aspen tree. in the snow it has collected flakes until barely any of the metal is visible – like a tall snow-mushroom umbrella-ing anything below.

i stop in front of the mirror before i facetime or zoom. i wonder how i am seen from the other side of the camera. i am no longer shiny or silver. the elements have taken their toll and age has begun to catch up.

but as i gaze at other beloved faces across the technology of a phone or computer, across a table or on a trail, next to me on the pillow – i know that nothing – no amount of rust or erasure of smooth – can change the fact that they are still coneflowers, nonetheless. still beautiful. still loved.

*****

happy birthday, my love. ❤️

read DAVID’s thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

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buymeacoffee is a website where you may directly impact an artist whose work directly impacts you. xoxo