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Tag Archives: long island sound


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

cattails feel like home to me.

i grew up on long island – which is, quite obviously by definition, surrounded by water. i spent the vast majority of my time outside at the beach. winter, spring, summer and fall. pebbly beaches along the sound, sandy dunes along the ocean, beach grasses and willowy reeds dominate the vegetation and, so, seeing cattails is like seeing home.

the next time we go there i’ll spend a good bit of time at those beaches. it will be time to reclaim them, to reclaim that place.

it is no surprise to learn that these plants that pull at my heart – cattails – are resilient and adaptable, persistent and resourceful, able to flourish in all kinds of circumstances and under adverse conditions.

spiritually, they symbolize peace and tranquility – the very things i always felt at those beaches back in the day, the same thing i feel as we hike through portions of our trail where we are dwarfed by the cattails surrounding us.

i slow down in those sections, soaking up the denseness of these stands on both sides of the trail. seagulls and red-winged blackbirds elicit the same when i spot them – they zip around and i stand – transported back in time to the marshland on my way to crab meadow or the dunes surrounded by sand fencing on fire island. i stand in memory. no wonder i love this trail.

we arrive back home after hiking – a tiny bit sunburned, our legs tired. the grasses and daylilies in the front yard greet us as we pull in. they are robust and their greeting is in chorus. and i realize that these, too, are the plants of the island. these grasses, these daylilies, spilling-over hydrangea, the ferns in the back, the hosta, sweet lavender…they are the plantings of the waterfront; they are familiar.

we surround ourselves purposefully – and sometimes unintentionally – with things that help us, things that feel good, things that ground us. we sink roots deep and move in the wind like the reeds in marshes, like cattails in a summer storm. we are resilient and flexible, making do with workarounds and chutzpah. we survive and have unlimited ability to thrive.

we are just like the cattails.

those plants that feel like home.

*****

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

we watched the band on the lakefront at the harbor. the sky began to pastel itself into evening. the water reflected masts and the outline of the docks. at these slips i am gently transported back to northport harbor – days long ago – evenings filled with the clanking of rigs and seagulls seeking yet one more morsel. those were innocent nights and i couldn’t imagine myself anywhere else back then.

seagulls fly over our house fairly often since we live so close to the lake. their screeches fling me back in time just like the sun setting over the harbor. a lifelong sea-level girl who also adores the high mountains, i do love the water. we are fortunate to feel the presence of lake michigan – right…there. it’s not long island sound or the atlantic ocean, but it’s big water and we are aware of it, year-round.

we took a long walk along our lakefront the other day. the farmer’s market was bustling. there was a bridal party having a photo shoot in the breezes by the boats. six tiny children clustered around a cake singing happy birthday. food trucks were tempting and people wandered with big bundles of flowers. we turned from our harborfront and came back south – hugging the lake. few people, less hustle and bustle. we stood – with uninterrupted views of this really big lake – marveling at how beautiful it was and how fortunate we were to be able to walk along it at any time.

the guitarists sang and played songs from a variety of genres. they were terrific and the night was just-the-right-shade-of-cool. we sang along and i wanted to get up and dance in the grass a time or two. harbor thoughts floated as the sun set. we pasteled closer to darkness settling in and got ready to leave.

and the threshold of night – on the western sky – greeted us as we turned to go, boldly exclamation-pointing the evening.

*****

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the water. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

lake michigan – and its looming presence – it’s always there, though sometimes we don’t notice.

i’ve been around water my whole life: long island and florida and here. i’m not sure if i have thought about what that means to me. i’ve lived most of life at or around sea level. i have always been able to – via a short walk, short bike hike, short drive – get to a large body of water. and, regardless of whether or not i am on the shore of that immensity, i can feel it.

the last few days have pulled me out of center – whatever center i have mustered in recent times. in the middle of the middle i can’t feel the grounding gravity that usually helps – perspective that keeps the rest at bay. i know the flailing time is limited and that we are not trapped there. adrift in the onslaught of emotion, i tune in to the things that balance me. i listen for the windchimes outside, i stand in the living room and look at the lit trees, i sit at the kitchen table opposite d, we take hikes in cold air, we light a candle.

i fend off the pining for the high mountains, knowing i can’t get there right now. in guided imagery i sit at the side of the brook – on a log – in the lodgepole pine forest – high on the mountain. i – curiously – am never on the shore – of rock or of sand.

have i always taken the water for granted? do i take this presence – merely a block away – for granted? is it human to pine for the things we don’t have, things that are harder to access?

yet, if i imagine being away from the water – any water – i have a visceral reaction. for it’s always been there and i hardly know what it would feel like without it.

the days i have sat on the coast – sandy beach beneath me – i can feel the deep breath that powerful surf affords.

the days we have hiked streamside up the mountain, the days we have sat on its bank or on rocks in the middle of rushing water – i can feel the the deep breath that the flow affords.

the days we hike along our favorite local trail – river at our side – i can feel the deep breath that its familiarity in all seasons affords.

the days we choose to walk by the lake – on its bouldered shoreline or on its beaches – i can feel the deep breath that an unbroken horizon affords.

and the water – the innate healer – is always there. grounding.

“take a course in good water and air; and in the eternal youth of nature you may renew your own. go quietly, alone; no harm will befall you.” (john muir)

*****

ADRIFT from BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL ©️ 1996 kerri sherwood

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what matters. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

one of my favorite memories of time spent with columbus was fishing with him up at the mountain lake. gently he handed me a fishing pole and explained the fish thereabouts and we made our way down to the shoreline. i could have stood there all day, my line in the water, casting again and again and dreaming. surrounded by mountains and aspen trees and tall pine, i was standing in heaven. the fish didn’t really matter.

the times i spent fishing on long island were generally from a boat. crunch and i would mosey out into the sound – at all times of day or night – and drop in a line. we’d talk quietly and ponder life and watch the stars and drift a bit. it, too, was a bit of heaven. and it never really mattered if there was anything on the stringer at the end of the day.

up in ely, 20 took us out on the vast lakes. the boundary waters were absolutely quiet. we dropped in lines with no real expectation. trolling around, we were surprised when we ended the day with a few fish. i can’t remember that i caught any of them.

i haven’t ever fished in wisconsin. no real reason. we prefer the pontoon boat up north or getting a little lost in time in the canoe.

and it is true – i’m not really good at fishing. though i relish the time in the boat or, better yet, on that mountain shoreline, it’s not really the fish that matter.

what matters is the serenity found in the waiting, the time spent outside being quiet together, the being there.

*****

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and the beach. [k.s. friday]

i lived in florida. merely 14 miles from the gulf of mexico. for eight plus years. yet, i can count the number of times i went to the beach while i lived there. likely on two hands. i spent more time on the gulf before living there and after living there. just not during.

as a teenager and young adult i was at the north shore all the time. biking there, vw-ing there, boating, diving, fishing, walking, climbing the fence to take sunrise pictures – winter, spring, summer, fall. all the time.

in recent years i’ve yearned for the days on those long island beaches. and, though they are remarkably beautiful and warm and sunny and tan-producing (definitely not important anymore), i can’t really say the same for the florida beaches. i don’t find myself pining for them.

maybe it’s just my history with them. or, perhaps, the lack thereof.

the other day we went to the beach. on lake michigan. we walked and walked for a couple of hours, searching for hagstones and paintable flat rocks. then we settled down on a big log of driftwood in soft sand and sat and watched the waves. we wished we had a picnic lunch with us and a good book. it was that kind of day. the only thing that drove us out was hunger.

but we’ll go back, because the beauty of that beach was powerful.

when you live with someone who also likes to walk, you will walk anywhere. strolling in the ‘hood, hiking on the trail, trolling for stones on the beach. it’s the thing we do when all else stops – all work, all tasks. it’s the thing we do when we want all else to stop – all wistfulness, all thought, all worry, all out-and-out angst.

it’s funny to me that there was this big chunk of my life when i wasn’t walking, wasn’t hiking. just like this big chunk of my life when i wasn’t going to the beach – to stare at the waves, to watch gulls swoop and dive in the wind, to find the gifts of the air and the water – tuning into soul and energy, soothing and healing.

i’ve pondered, before, what would have happened had i walked. now i ponder what would have happened had i gone to the beach.

*****

DAWN AT CRAB MEADOW ©️ 1996 kerri sherwood

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discovery. [d.r. thursday]

back in the day crunch and i went to every lighthouse on long island’s shoreline and its peripheral islands off the coast. i was doing a photographic study for a college class and crunch was a happy participant, lugging me around in his big green truck and taking us out in his boat, a few boats before his current beloved ‘elephant ears’. the day i got to go up into the fire island lighthouse was memorable. it wasn’t open to the public but the lighthouse keeper was there and generously offered us a tour. the textures – going up the 182 steps on that spiral staircase to the light tower – were photographically inviting: the iron stairs, the cement walls, the ribbed glass of the light. every so often there was a peek out one of the windows built into the structure in 1826 and rebuilt, more than twice as high, in 1857, its eventual black and white bands of color distinguishing it along the ocean front. my essay is all on slides and, after borrowing one of those kodak carousel slide projectors (you can hear the ca-chunk of the slides changing even in your memory), we watched it a couple years ago. all those lighthouses – some steadfast, tall and proud, some crumbling, some pristine and unmanned, each a source of a study in woven texture and, when you are lucky enough to hear the mournful sound of the foghorn and breathe in thick salty air, a synthesis of senses. discovery.

when we were walking along the seine river in paris the sun was setting. i had never been to the eiffel tower and, though i had seen pictures, kind of expected to be underwhelmed. i’ve never been a really big tourist-attraction kind of person, preferring places of nature. we kept walking toward it, strolling, and i could see it in the distance starting to loom into the sky. the lights turned on as we got close and i caught my breath. it was stunning. gold against the early evening sky, light of day dropping away, it was one of my favorite moments in paris. discovery.

every time we come over the pass and start to drop down – the vista of high mountains before us – i cry. forests of evergreens to our side, snow-caps ahead, towering mountains that make my toes curl. i literally want to pull over every few feet to capture the sheer stunning beauty of it all, to remember the green and the blue, to breathe in the cooler air and the scent of pine. we keep driving and i memorize it for the days i am at sea level, wondering if, were we to live there, i would ever not see the incredible-ness of it. or would it always and always be a discovery?

as we walk around our ‘hood, as we hike familiar and unfamiliar trails, i feel open. open to seeing the textures of life as it goes on around us, as it goes on through us. back in the day, with crunch and my blue jean cap, i took a lot of photos on my old 35mm camera. nothing has really changed. my camera is an iphone these days, i don’t have my old blue jean cap and, missing him, david and i haven’t seen crunch in a few years.

but on the best days, in the best moments, when everything else drops off and we are nowhere but right where we are, i am aware of texture after texture, grain and weave and nap and frequency and harmonics, a composition of smooth and rough, woven and intermingled, softly and intensely waiting to be discovered.

isn’t it grand?

*****

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drifting in deep waters. [k.s. friday]

adrift

in the wee hours of the dark night, long island sound is quiet.  crunch and i would sit in his boat, inky skies punctuated by a million stars and the lights of the shore, our fishing together comfortable, a thermos of coffee to share, some conversation.  treasured memories now, i was adrift with one of my best friends and completely at ease.

we were probably 12 or 13 when the sunfish sailboat we were in became becalmed.  sue and i sat out in the middle of the big pennsylvania lake and, with no wind from any direction, started laughing.  we were in no danger; we had already capsized a couple times and had survived that.  but we were a distance from the shore and i don’t remember there being any paddles in that little sailboat.  at some point my uncle must have realized our predicament and came out in his speedboat with a towrope. the sunburn decades-faded, i was adrift in that lake with one of my best friends and completely at ease.

as we sit in the middle of this pandemic, this time of change and this time of no-change, we feel motionless, even stranded.  we are learning patience, we are learning to slow down; we are learning.  we are changing our expectations and our measurements of success.  we are marooned in a vast water, drifting, unsure, way out in the deep.  but all around us are others who are generously sitting with us, sharing, nurturing us, also drifting.  our sails are buoyed with winds of kindness, our anchors a steadfast dedication to the well-being of all.  we are grateful for the goodness of brilliant minds, the commitment and sacrifice of front-liners, the respect and honoring of that which keeps us all safer and healthier.

and one day, as we look back at this time, for surely it will someday be a memory, we will see that we were adrift with our best friends and, though trusting and in the care of each other, it truly was a time of unease, the shoreline was not visible and the fathomless water in which we were stranded was way bigger than us.

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ADRIFT ©️ 1996 kerri sherwood

 

 


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take flight. [k.s. friday]

take flight songbox

i have a seagull collection.  much like my horse collection, my seagull collection is much bigger in my memory than in the actual bin-in-the-basement.  when i opened what i thought was a big stable of horse figurines, i was shocked to find that my i-packed-it-in-1972-according-to-the-newspapers-in-the-box brain had overestimated the numbers…by a lot.  my seagull collection, on the other hand, was packed a bit later – more like 1980 – and i had a (little bit) better memory about how many jonathan livingston seagulls i had collected through the years.

growing up on long island i loved seagulls.  never too far from the beach, they were everywhere, but i spent great periods of time beach-sitting winter/spring/summer/fall watching them swoop and holler, screeching at their scavenged finds.  richard bach created a whole seagull community metaphor and i fell right in.

i can still smell the wet sand, see the seaweed washed ashore on pebbles i collected even back then, feel the sun, even the winter sun, on my face.  it all made me breathe differently.  it all made me think and grow and dream.

john denver’s song the eagle and the hawk spoke to me back then.  his simple lyrics prompted me to let those dreams TAKE FLIGHT.

“And all of those who see me, and all who believe in me
Share in the freedom I feel when I fly.
Come dance with the west wind and touch on the mountain tops,
Sail o’er the canyons and up to the stars.
And reach for the heavens and hope for the future,
And all that we can be and not what we are”

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TAKE FLIGHT from THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY ©️ 1997 & 2000 kerri sherwood

 


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adrift. [k.s. friday]

adrift songbox

“from a visual place…adrift on long island sound late-night.  from an emotional place…living in the gray.” (liner notes – blueprint for my soul, 1996)

the gray.  it sounds dismal.  but gray is not devoid of color.  if you mix the three primary colors together – red, yellow and blue – and then add white, you will hone the gray of your choosing.  if you have ever stood in front of color samples at home depot or menards you know that gray, itself, spans a full spectrum.  so many choices.  all gray.  the only thing really pertinent about gray is that it isn’t just black and white.  it swirls together every color of experience, every emotion, every laugh and every tear.  it is not defined by distinct edges, but blurs one moment into the next.

the word ‘adrift’ sounds inactive.  but, in this vast world, aren’t we pretty much adrift?  we believe we are proactive; we act on things we believe in.  and yet.  we bounce off turbulent waves threatening to destroy us; we ride others into the beach.  we sit in calm waters and we try to navigate the waters that toss us wildly.  we make decisions in moments of incomplete information; we have successes, we have regrets.  we are adrift in the gray.

in moments of sunshine on trails in the woods i feel less adrift and more centered, more clear.  it’s the rest of the moments when i try my best to ‘go with the flow’.  we are surrounded by unknowns, caught in many an eddy.  we are uncertain, but we are all capable.  we are held in glimmering gossamer silks of grace by a universe that is benevolent.  adrift.

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ADRIFT from BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL ©️ 1996 kerri sherwood

 

 


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the sun rises in the east. [d.r. thursday]

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when i think about long island, i miss the days that i could bike to the beach, climb the fence and watch the sun rise over the sound.  these colors – the blue, green, aqua, yellow – dominated those mornings, both gentle and fierce, end of night, beginning of day.

i feel that if i were in outer space looking from far away at the earth…i would see the sun wrap its rays around the east side of the earth, a mix of blues and greens, melded into a blur with a rounded edge.  it would be a kaleidoscope of color and feeling.

either way i hold this piece, vertically or horizontally, i see the sun.  golden rising.  off the east edge of the earth.  or over the water.  either way, a new day.

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the sun rises in the east ©️ 2018 david robinson, kerri sherwood