reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: lessons from nature


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maypole dancing. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

wearing a traditional scandinavian jumper, i danced around the maypole. holding a ribbon tethered to the pole, i danced to and fro with other young girls also holding ribbons. it was an ancient spring festival – at an arboretum on the island – and my sweet momma happily got us involved in taking part in it.

may day – the first of may. it seems impossible that we are already at may. time has a way of zipping by while at the same time taking-its-sweet-time. langsam – slowww – one of the few german words i remember from six years of studying the language.

but the return of spring it is and we are both grateful for it, despite its exceedingly stormy arrival.

we wake in the morning even earlier now, the sun streams in on our quilt, the breeze through the open window. everything is greening…gorgeous new-green crayon tones against easter-egg blue sky…tiny buds bursting into leaves, stalks of peonies growing taller before our eyes. the aspen is filling out, the ferns are unfurling, the daylilies are daylilly-ing – they require no help whatsoever.

and the birds and squirrels and raccoons are taking full advantage of our zeal to keep the feeders full. they linger on the top of barney, on the top of the potting stand. they gather in the pine tree next to the birdbath, waiting turns at the water.

and we can hear the call of the cardinals – beautiful song punctuated by sharp chirps. they stick around during the winter; their presence is always reassuring…a sign from the universe reminding me that my sweet momma and poppo are nearby, just on the other side, having slipped from this dimension to the next.

we’ve sat on the back patio a few times now, on the back deck in the sun. we’ve watched these creatures of our yard, narrating for them as they move about. wanting a photo of the cardinal at the birdbath, perched on its side, getting a drink, i grabbed my phone. but i was, regretfully, too late and he took off as i snapped the picture.

it wasn’t until much later – hours, really – as i looked at my photos of the day when i saw this photograph, the cardinal taking off, flying away from the birdbath.

so much better than a static perch photo, the cardinal taking flight – its may dance – its own celebration of the arrival of spring, of renewal, of new life.

we sit in our adirondack chairs and plot out our spring. we talk of our gardens, of an annual flower or two we might choose, of the herbs and vegetables we will grow on our barnwood stand.

it is hard not to feel passion for our very earth watching it come back alive all around us. it is impossible not to take deep, cleansing breaths, to turn our faces to the sun. it is time – for all good things – to dance around the maypole, to take flight.

*****

TAKE FLIGHT © 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood

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read DAVID’s thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

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fiddlehead life. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

the ferns are curly-cuing their way up – out of the ground – taller and taller every day. they are spectacular, these fiddleheads, coiled fronds answering the beckoning of the sun.

this particular photo of our ferns in our fern garden strikes me as very maternal…as if the momma fern is looking out for the young ferns following suit – the one with tilted head, the one not yet fully unearthed. i am reminded of one of d’s paintings…mother-daughter…the never-ending inclination to protect, to hold close, to comfort.

but unfurling-life doesn’t provide us with the never-ending opportunity to physically hold our children, to physically protect them, to physically comfort them. instead, they scatter – like wildflower seeds – as they must – as they should – and we parents are left to watch over them from afar, to celebrate their successes and hold fast their hearts when they are mourning. we have not given up our connection, but it is stretched out far and we find we must also rely on the grace of the universe to protect, to hold, to comfort them.

as our own beautiful children – now in their thirties – move about the world being who they are, i miss them, the preciousness of their presence.

i sometimes miss the days when they were reliant on me (and their dad) for most things. those days were intense, busy, skewed mostly in the direction of making sure their needs were met, that we provided for them the best we could, that we offered up opportunity as well as critical boundaries, that we cheered their journeys.

i sometimes miss the days when they had new freedom…those days they were in college and littlebabyscion was the moving van again and again, taking them to and fro, witnessing year by year their growing independence.

i sometimes miss the days when they were newly out of college, when they weren’t quite as established as now, when home still kind of meant wisconsin.

in going-through the basement, the attic, the closets, all the rooms of the house, i try hard to remember that the things of those times will not help me hold onto those times. i try hard to remember that their baby clothes, their early toys, the old trinkets from their rooms, their junior high notebooks will not keep those times at hand. i try to release all that as i go, my heart trying to just gently hold the memories i can remember, my heart trying to tenderly – empathetically – hold my heart. i try to be a good fern in a big world of fern gardens.

and now, as the frond that burst out of the soil first, the frond that unfurled first, the frond that aged first, i glance at the verdant fiddleheads following. i could not be more proud. i could not love them more. and i will never not miss physically holding, protecting or comforting them as they answer the beckoning sun.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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what the hell are we doing? [kerri’s blog on flawed wednesday]

the drive was going to be about 9-10 hours or so. we knew that the front end would be belabored by traffic – taking hours to get through the city, but, once on the interstate, figured we’d be cruising. ahh….not the best of figuring.

there was the hour we spent at the delaware water gap…not outside enjoying the views and a trail…but inside big red, crawling our way out of new jersey into pennsylvania.

then the hour plus we spent just lingering – barely moving – through this one section of i80 in the very wide state of PA – where the department of transportation had decided that – for miles – it would be necessary to have cones blocking a lane so that eventually – miles later – they could do roadwork. now, i am all for safety for the workers on these roads, but cones for miles with no indication of any work is a tad bit frustrating.

so, then, finally, we were moving along. we had a whole bunch more hours to go – about 4-5 when we stopped about 70 miles from the ohio border to get gas and have a little pit stop. we could see the sky getting darker to the west and thought we’d get ahead of the necessities.

and then we got our first tornado warning. warning, not watch.

d pumped gas while i checked the weather radar. it looked ugly to our west and the prediction was for extended storms, hail, extreme wind and, yes, perhaps a tornado or two.

we pulled next to the station and sat while the first of the storms came through, pummeling us with torrential rain and wind. we were grateful we weren’t driving in it.

pulling up the radar again, i looked at some points along our journey to that night’s airbnb. things did not look good for the rest of the evening. it was already close to 5, we had been driving for 9 hours by then and we still had hours to go – through the weather mess on our app. we didn’t quite know what to do.

i looked around as we sat there in that lot. to my left – high on a hill next to us – sat what looked like either a hotel or a condo building which, given the exit we had taken, didn’t seem likely. pulling up google maps, i found out it was, indeed, a hotel.

i pulled up their website.

just to check.

because we were already tired and the road ahead looked pretty scary and long.

about a half hour later we checked into the hotel, forfeiting our airbnb – erring on the side of safety. the couple behind us in line at the front desk – about our age – were doing the same thing, forgoing their reservations several hours down the road.

many times over that night and the next day we marveled at the serendipity of the hotel-on-the-hill location next to us and were grateful for it and for our ponderous decision.

the dawning morning fog the next day lifted before we started driving and there was no indication of storm until we were closer to home. we had tornado watches for the last couple hours while we were driving, which made us jittery – well, it definitely made me jittery.

the tornado sirens went off when we got home.

because, well, climate change is real. global warming is real. weather events are becoming extreme as a result of humans’ lack of care about greenhouse gases, fossil fuels and pollutants in the air, water cycles. ridiculously hot heatwaves, intense droughts, insane amounts of precipitation and flooding, supersized hail, coastal storm surges, damaging winds, severe widespread wildfires, and destructive tornadoes caused by warmer, more humid air. this could potentially all be catastrophic, yet the current administration is ignoring all the signs of peril to our earth, gluttonous greed intentionally perpetuating the damage.

a few days later, in our backyard and starting to prepare the gardens for spring, we looked up.

the clouds – mammous and with these rope-like threads – were suddenly overhead. the same kind of clouds as the night we arrived home. we both sighed, suddenly nervous about what front was coming.

there have been plenty of scary looking clouds. there have been plenty of emergencies across our land. there has been plenty of devastation. there have been plenty of catastrophes due to weather events.

“the united nations intergovernmental panel on climate change’s sixth assessment report in 2021 (five years ago!!!) noted that the human-caused rise in greenhouse gases increased the frequency and intensity of extreme weather events worldwide.”

you gotta wonder when those “in charge” might care.

i read a quote while perusing around the issues of this extreme weather, climate change, this earth. it seems sadly apropos: “unfortunately for some of those people, it won’t hit home for them until it really hits home for them.”

is that what we are waiting for?

what the hell are we doing?

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this FLAWED WEDNESDAY

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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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beauty on its way. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

in what feels like a moment of gardener glory, i suddenly noticed that the peonies are rising. because they are sooo utterly gorgeous, it always feels like great success when they return, when nothing i have done or not done has dissuaded them from coming back. these reddish-maroonish sprouts – full of promise – are growing and, one day down the road, on a warm late spring or early summer day full of sunshine, we will have stunning peonies again. beauty is on its way.

i stumbled onto a social media post with photographs of a variety of women who are now part of the current administration or somehow peripheral to it in a meaningful way. there were before and after pictures. photo shoots of women who had looked, well, like normal women living life, with faces that had faced whatever challenges or successes had come their way to date.

you know, like ours….faces that have grown up with macaroni and cheese, with petticoat junction and gilligan, with phones connected to the wall, with studying into the wee hours of the night and term papers on typewriters, with apartments or houses to decorate and upkeep, with childbirth or the hurdles of adoption, with middle of the night feedings and fevers and teenagers breaking curfews, with illness and recuperation, with job discrimination and grievances, with the loss of our parent or parents, with our bodies ever-changing. faces that have reflected back the tens of thousands of suns we have seen, the tens of thousands of moons we have stared at – wide-awake, the hundreds of thousands of stars we have wished on. faces that have aged through time, every laugh line, every wrinkle, every worry line earned.

the photo essay i saw depicted women who then changed their faces. they erased the laugh lines, the wrinkles, the worry lines, the jowls. they puffed up and exaggerated some version of youth that, in the end, escapes them. they no longer look real. they look plastic, even like the scary dolls you see in antique shoppes. and maybe that’s their point. that feels sad, but seems accurately reflective of the ideology they are choosing to embrace. which makes it even more sad.

because every day we live – we women AND we men – we are gardener glory of the universe. every day we live – we women AND we men – are great successes of endurance, of keeping on, of facing what comes.

and because every day we live – we women AND we men – are beauty on its way.

just as we are.

*****

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

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to feed or not to feed. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

under the quilt, getting ready to tune out current events, domestic and global news, opinions dedicated to either side of the chaos, we cursor-ed the play button on mike wanders for a stunning video of him out west – a trip about which he literally oozed awe and gratitude. we were ready to no longer have eyes on what was happening in the world. it is all exhausting.

and then we heard it.

the distinct metal clinking sound of the birdfeeder outside our open window. too late for any of our birdies and definitely not helter-skelter enough to be a squirrel attempting to push down the little plate that releases deliveries of seed.

d turned on the back light so we could look out the window.

and there – quite happy for the extra lighting – was this raccoon, happily at what-would-seem our vending machine, designed just for him. standing and tapping the plate and then devouring, tapping the plate, devouring, tapping, devouring. we laughed at him – even with the window opened – and he just continued his munchfest sans interruption, maybe even happy for an audience.

we are not cranky about him eating our birdseed. this feeder holds a lot of seed and we know we will replenish it for the birds again.

instead, we delighted in the antics of this very cute raccoon. a bit later – without knowing we had seen him in our driveway, our dear westneighbors texted us with a picture of him sleeping on the peak of our garage roof, his full belly making him a bit tuckered out, i guess. he is doing his part as an ecosystem generalist.

i’m not sure what else raccoons do in the world – other than eat. though I’m guessing he may think the same about all of us. what we don’t know we don’t know.

it occurs to me – that at the crux of it all – making sure that all creatures – and, even more specifically, all people – having enough to eat should be paramount. to sustain life, to carry on with enough energy for all life’s tasks – the most basic of needs – we should be absolutely committed to the doctrine of keeping people fed any and every where.

and yet, here we are. eliminating nationwide emergency food assistance, snap and wic in our own country, eliminating food aid to the international sphere by usaid and the world food program. the rhetoric and propaganda around eliminating support of these humanitarian efforts are demeaning and literally beg vulgar responses.

what the hell are we doing here?

starving people is despicable policy. particularly when you are personally pocketing grift that could feed the poor, provide education and healthcare, take care of the populace and then some.

in the case of this – the very absence of compassion – the lack of soul of this administration – this shaw quote should instead read: “there is no sincerer love than the love of self.”

shameful beyond belief.

i imagine that now that our raccoon knows where to find it, he will be back for a snack tonight. we will be glad to hear him outside our window.

*****

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

photograph credit to dear michele

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the cheering squill. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

this charming little flower started popping up all over the top part of our yard – between the old brick wall and the garden by the house. striped squill require no special skills, no plant food, no specific watering instructions. it just appears. and it thrives. and every single one of these tiny striped blooms makes me smile. they are incredibly low-maintenance in a high-maintenance world. it’s hard to think of something sweeter to broadcast that spring-in-the-midwest is actually on its way.

because there is wild geranium under barney – the old upright in the backyard – and there are day lilies growing feverishly in every bit of garden and there are the tiniest curlicues of ferns along the back fence over in the corner by the garage and there are sedum’s wee cabbages obstinately ignoring any deep temperature drops – we have to believe that we here in wisconsin are on the docket for spring’s arrival.

years ago i planted hundreds of tulip and daffodil bulbs with the great hope that, well, tulips and daffodils would grow in our yard. but – the squirrels dug them all up and ate ’em all. que sera. it wasn’t to be.

i am not horticulturally derailed by that. i enjoy the bulb flowers in other gardeners’ gardens and appreciate what actually grows easily in ours. striped squill – its delicate flowers – are our gig, it seems. no credit to us.

and i have to say that i really love it that way.

because these tiny flowers – even in what seems their inconsequence – are most meaningful. their presence in our grass signals the hope of fallow-coming-to-an-end. it signals the freshness of a new season, a new time. it signals rejuvenation of a place on earth that has rested for some time – in this case, right here, through winter.

i can’t help but linking-thinking it to the hope of fallow-coming-to-an-end and the freshness of a new season, a new time and rejuvenation….of me, of us, of each of us.

somewhere deep in our own fallow – our own dormancy – we start to thrash our arms at the darker shadows and invite in the light. somewhere deep in our own fallow – our own dormancy – we begin to cultivate the chance of growth, of healing, of rising up through the debris of whatever had been plowed over. from somewhere deep in our own fallow – our own dormancy – we emerge stronger, more vital, chutzpah leading the way.

the little squill stand firm in the wind and the rain, their skinny little stems steadfast. they keep reaching for the sun, grinning. they know they matter. they have no doubt. they are the harbingers of renewal. and they cheer each of us on our way with them.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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on their tiny shoulders. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

there is something infinitely reassuring when a pair of mourning doves chooses your yard. these two sweet doves spend lots of time either in our yard or peripheral to it – in the trees, on the wires, on the neighbor’s roof overlooking our backyard – all directly related to whether dogga is in or out.

it’s not just because they are symbolic of peace, love, hope. it’s not just because they are representative of new beginnings and emotional healing and moving forward or are thought to be messengers from the next dimension. their gentle nature, their cooing, their life-long dedication to each other – all suggest comfort. seeing their sweet pudgy selves sitting together on our patio or brick pavers, on rocks lining the pond, or even gazing into the yard from high wires above – all slow my heart down, ease that quivering vibration present in my chest.

i’m hoping that this particular pair is steadfast – that they don’t let dogga’s barking or antics frighten or dissuade them from staying here. i’m hoping that they continue to make our home their home.

in these times it occurs to me that we need to take our cues for solace and serenity wherever we can find them. we need to look to the ever-presence of nature, through its own challenges with thick and thin. we need to welcome the signs and nods of assurance and consolation to which we may not have been paying attention, to acquiesce to the solid news that seasons change – regardless of what we do – there is a natural order, there is harmony.

those little mourning doves have a lot on their tiny shoulders.

*****

prayer of opposites 48×48 mixed media

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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in the midst. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

it was not warm. at all. though the sun was out, the wind was off the lake and it was a bit brutal.

we huddled in a small cluster in and amongst a lot of other people, all gathered together to rise above the chaos that is this country.

our presence counted. we were merely two in the eight million or more who came out to the protests on saturday. with our little posse we were six.

and here is what i know.

i know that our energy – our very presence at this event – was part of an energy that strove to overcome the inertia of shock and utter dismay of the populace of this nation. our energy – our very presence at this event – is a statement of pushback that echoes across this land. our energy – our very presence at this event – is part and parcel of the responsibility as a citizen of this republic, of the protection of its democracy, of holding truth to power.

what will happen now will ride on the compounded energy of these efforts. what will happen now will be aided by the acknowledgement that we are part of an aggregate aghast at the illegality of this administration. what will happen now will spread in concentric circles and multiply like cells birthing new life – this time to an aggrieved nation. what will happen now will happen because of hope and dedication, fortitude and the steadying words of the united states constitution and its amendments. what will happen now will be a continuing consolidation of pushback against authoritarianism.

but it’s not the endgame. it is merely the energy of movement, of activism, a path into resistance.

it’s a lot to take in, we agreed, as we held vigil later that day, watching – on tv and social media – the protests across the country. it’s a lot of change to hope for, we worried, as we talked about how fast the latest destruction had happened. it’s exhausting and invigorating – both – we sighed from under a throw as we watched.

but the thing we were glad for?

that on a blustery blue-sky day we walked to the protest and were present in the midst of everyone else there.

*****

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

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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.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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