reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

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vine-climbing. [merely-a-thought monday]

the 1977 graduating class of john glenn high school chose this song as our theme song. before the decision and ever since, it has remained a favorite. seals and crofts dominated our senior variety show – the one for which i wore a full wet suit including fins and played a piano duet -, our graduation, our prom, our yearbook. they played over and over in my bedside cassette player, on radio, on stereo systems throughout elwood and, likely, everywhere.

“so, i wanna laugh when the laughing is easy.

i wanna cry if it makes it worthwhile.

i may never pass this way again,

that’s why i want it with you…”

(jim seals, dash crofts – we may never pass this way again)

just last week jim seals died. he was 80. and suddenly, again, time flashes in front of us.

because somehow, listening to their music, i am back at 17 or 20 and they are in their early to mid thirties. but the years come and go and the journey keeps journeying, faster and faster it seems.

and so the moments and presence become infinitely more important and the stuff becomes less. the grand illusion of foreverness becomes foggy and we learn – little by little – sometimes, though, with ferocity – that we must be-here-now. we graduate and grow and regress and grow again and start to see that full spectrum is not so bad – that belly-laughing and weeping are both, indeed, necessary and that as we vine-climb from dirt to sky we are only really here to be with each other.

our beloved daughter was here for a couple days. any time we see her or our beloved son are those kind of rare-gift moments. we giggle and poke fun and talk and reminisce and ponder and there’s eye-rolling and i am astounded by them and, always, i cry upon their leaving or upon our parting. it is the hard part.

i know that we just never know. life has a way of teaching us that – again and again – though it is easy to forget, to push it aside. but the further up the vine we get, the more we recognize it. it is all so fragile. we may never pass this way again. simple. true. a calling, an imperative to say the stuff, to be vulnerable, to experience, to love, to acknowledge, to laugh, to cry, to be-with.

good choice of song, jhghs.

“all the secrets in the universe

whisper in our ears

and all the years, they come and go

and take us up, always up…”

*****

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


					
		
	



					



	

					
				

			
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all that mylar. [k.s. friday]

	


	

					








they are a mystery.  vhs tapes with no labels.  now, how on earth can you send them to the vhs recycle place if you don’t know what they are?  there could be priceless memories on that magnetic tape, mylar possibilities gone missing.





fortunately for us we still have a vcr machine.  i’m not quite sure if it will just simply connect to our tv, but there is a gigantic plastic bag in the basement workroom with all kinds of cords and cables and such, so maybe we will find something in there that will help.  or maybe we will have to get some kind of converter.  nevertheless, we have hours of viewing fun in front of us for some rainy evenings and we can find out what’s on those unlabeled tapes.  





there are plenty labeled as well, which makes it infinitely harder to dispose of them.  movies of my girl and my boy as tiny babies, ballet recitals and soccer games, birthday parties and christmas mornings, movies my sweet poppo recorded off the tv, shots of family times, recordings of cantatas i directed, footage of some of my concerts and of me performing on qvc.  they all demand a viewing and i’ll set them aside in a bin and someday, well, many somedays, serve them up with popcorn and m&ms.





the pre-recorded vhs tapes are no less sentimental.  the million times we watched under the sea singalong songs, the ridiculously infinite numbers of times barney made an appearance at our house, disney movies, the nutcracker.  it goes on and on.  not just in the basement, these movies are in the chimney cabinets, waiting.





and then there’s the 8mm tapes, which were converted to dvds and carefully labeled a few years back.  goodness!  memories à gogo.  





i guess someday someone will find our fuzzy purple cd case with the zipper and our daughter’s marker drawings all over it, the one we even take on trips.  they’ll unzip it to find all our favorite dvds…the ones we default to, over and over and over, for we are those people who love to watch movies we love to watch again and again.   





and they’ll wonder how to watch those dvds; they’ll seek out a dvd player, ponder what cords or cables they need, if they need some sort of converter.  they’ll pick a movie out of the fuzzy purple case or maybe one home-recorded and labeled.  they’ll load it up and push play.





then they’ll settle in with some popcorn and m&ms.





*****









let me take you back





download music from my little corner of iTUNES





stream on PANDORA





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LET ME TAKE YOU BACK from AS IT IS ©️ 2004 kerri sherwood

					
		
	



					



	

					
				

			
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on the curb. [d.r. thursday]

	


	

					








you can put most anything at the curb and it will soon disappear.  scrappers are on the prowl looking for metal and old appliances, big and small, things that might be repurposed, things that might be tinkered with and sold.





when i put out these three wrought-iron candlesticks i included a sign.  i measured the heights and jotted them on the sign that indicated they were candlesticks.  i was hoping someone who really wanted some taper holders to jaunt by and find them on our parkway.  i didn’t want them to go to scrap.





david said that he saw the person pull up and examine the sign and the bag of candlesticks and that this person gently placed it in the back of his truck, so i’m crossing my fingers he brought them home and showed his partner, suggesting they eat by taper or relax in the evening to the glow of candles.  i guess a girl can hope.





because we don’t generally do big giant things, we tend to celebrate the little stuff.  this past friday evening was one of those times.  right after he finished work, on an absolutely beautiful late afternoon, we got into littlebabyscion and drove south.  as is our way, we took the backroads, arriving at the botanic garden, happy to see the parking lot meagerly parked.  





we strolled through slowly, arm in arm, talking and quiet.  we only had about an hour and a half till its close, but it was an hour and a half of lovely.  it shushed our minds and its serenity was contagious.  





we drove home the back way, through a few small towns with bistro tables on the sidewalks and people gathered, eating and sipping wine.  we pondered stopping and having a bite outside, but continued home to make our own small meal and sip wine under happy lights in our sunroom with our dogga by our side.  it was a peaceful way to start the weekend.





you don’t have to lift every little thing, but we have learned it makes a difference.  the tiny things – a candle burning, a strand of happy lights, a quiet walk, sniffing peonies in a garden, admiring the wild columbine in the woods, stopping to watch a deer glide across someone’s front yard – these things matter.  





you don’t have to be there for each other each moment, but we have learned it makes a difference.  the tiny things – helping the other up off the floor after painting shoe moldings, bringing the other a steaming mug of coffee in a tired-time, clinking the day’s accomplishments, crying with the other’s pain – these things matter.





in one of her books, joyce maynard wrote, “when a person gave less, he required less in return.”  i suppose life could be easier that way, more centric, simpler.  one would not have to notice stuff or do much of anything for another.  the give-and-take of relationship would be low-bar and that might work for some.





but time and life have taught me a few lessons, some much harder than others.  one is that apathy and paying attention are absolute opposites, particularly in relationship.





we’re putting apathy on the curb.





*****





read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY






dancing in the front yard 24″x24″









					
		
	



					



	

					
				

			
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and love. [merely-a-thought monday]

	


	

					








it was, without a doubt, one of the holiest moments i have felt in the middle of almost ten thousand people.  it was more organic and held more of a sacred hush than most church services i have attended or of which i have been a part, which is saying a lot since my professional work as a minister of music was over three decades of tenure.  it was, without a doubt, something i will remember – a visceral memory – forever, probably.





matt maher was singing onstage at red rock ampitheatre, nestled in gigantic red rock formations and mountains in colorado.  mostly just him and his piano, his simple but profound lyrics had everyone on their feet, arms around each other, strangers and friends all alike.  moving from one song to the next, this man-who-was-not-the-headliner wove a net of love-for-humankind around us all and, for a few moments in time, we were transported to a place where love was – truly – the way.





“…and love will hold us together
make us a shelter to weather the storm
and I’ll be my brother’s [sister’s] keeper
so the whole world will know that we’re not alone…”





(matt maher – hold us together)





it – truly – is the only way.  





the aggression of our neighbors, our leaders, our country, our world is a broken path, filled with trolls and ogres, bastardizing efforts of goodness.  





this time is surely fleeting.  we are reminded, sometimes cruelly, of this every single day.





i walk on dusty trails, on the cement sidewalks of our neighborhood, in the grasses of mountain meadows, on the sand of seashores, always looking, looking.  our walks, our hikes – these are the places of true sanctuary.  for, often, in those other places there are bellicose voices, desiring argument, pushing agenda.  so instead now, we walk and breathe in the granola of the universe, under the sky of all possibility.  





and in the way of nature, they appear.  heart-shaped rocks, heart-shaped leaves, heart-shaped raindrops, heart-shaped puddles.  reminders, always, they stop me, sometimes to pick them up, sometimes to photograph them, sometimes to just simply ponder.  always, always, they give me pause…moments to think of beloveds, moments to have quiet gratitude, moments to think of love.  





“love is a place





and through this place of





love move





(with brightness of peace)





all places





yes is a world





and in this world of





yes live





(skilfully curled)





all worlds”





(ee cummings – love is a place)





though the world does not shake out the way we might choose it to be, we have the choice whether or not to reach out and put our arms around the person next to us, whether we know them or not.  we can choose to be shelter for each other or we can choose to be antagonistic.  we can choose to weather the storm or we can choose to be the storm.





we can choose to be alone or we can choose to be together.





“tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?’ (mary oliver)





*****





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not-still-life. [d.r. thursday]

	


	

					








there is a gold frame around the old black and white photograph.  a still life of a family.  it was taken in the 1920s and it captures the still-life of my sweet poppo’s family…at that very moment:  his dad, his mom, his brothers and sisters as young children and babies.  





i don’t have another like it; there is not another portrait – at least not in my collection of photos – that has both his biological parents and all his brothers and sisters.  my dad lost his mom to metastasized breast cancer when he was merely eight years old.  my grandpa married a woman – the only paternal grandmother i knew – who was willing to take on six growing children.  life was not still.





in the way that families sometimes splinter, my dad’s family lost touch after the death of my grandparents.  there was some rift and there were plenty of hurt feelings and, then, there was silence.  i grew up the rest of my life without my cousins, without sharing in their stories, without the chance to know them or love them.  it was like the still-life-portrait was carefully cut up and only my dad was left.





one of my uncles had drowned in the swimming hole in upstate new york during their teenage years.  another uncle was lost at sea during the war.  i think my third uncle passed somewhere along the way maybe in brooklyn, where they all grew up, as did one of my aunts, a fun-loving californian who always went by her nickname.   and the aunt who had children – who would be my first cousins, wished for but lacking in my own circles – was in new england.  





a couple years ago – after i broke my wrists – when i was sitting with casts and a laptop and the pandemic had just begun, i decided to google them.  i wrote a bit about finding them – a golden moment of connection.  suddenly, through research and social media and, unfortunately, posted obituaries, i discovered two of my four cousins.  





i reached out, one on either coast.  they reached back.  and the ripped pieces of portraits that could have been taken through the years began to assemble.  tiny bits of photo paper, a little glue, stories to be told.  





my dad – on the other side but not too far away – smiled when i had my first conversation with his sister, my aunt.  he no longer remembered the details of whatever the rift was and, besides, it was a ridiculous fifty years prior.  how long does one hold onto these kinds of things?  





my aunt, with a touch of brooklyn and a touch of boston, told me stories and i really pined to meet her, to hug my dad’s sister, to hear of my dad as a youngster, to sit with her.  but covid and fragile health sadly combined to prevent this.  





my cousin called while we were driving to the grocery store.  he told me that earlier in the morning his momma, my 99-year-old-would-have-been-100-in-three-months-aunt helen, had died.  once again, the still-life photo shattered.  i would not capture a picture of us together, our jowls matching, perhaps our eyes, perhaps the curve of our faces.  i watched her service online yesterday, trying to memorize the smiles and tears of my lost-now-found relatives.





i’m grateful for the brief conversations and the fact that she knows i looked for her, for her children.  i’m grateful to have contact with two of my cousins and to someday meet their families and the families of my other two cousins who were holding a spot for their momma in that other plane.  with great joy i listen to stories they tell me and i know that we’ll share time and snapshots, close-ups, wide angles, portraits, candids – reaching back and reaching forward – of our lives together. 





i learn every day to let go, to hold on, to appreciate it.





the still-life is never really still.  





*****





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well and stinky. [merely-a-thought monday]

	


	

					








hash marks are kept somewhere, keeping track of the days we do it well and the days we just basically stink at it…life.  the generous thing about it, though, is that, for the most part, no one is waving those down-down-down-down-across-hatches at us.  each day, we get to do it again, the best we can.  and some days we do it well and some days we stink at it.  sleep and repeat.





after six decades of doing life – which admittedly, isn’t really all that much – i can still say i am a newbie.  every day i learn something new; every day i sort out a little somethin’; every day i adjust the on-the-dirt-attitude-indicator which, funny thing, is the same as in the air: keeping you relative to the horizon and making you aware of the smallest change in orientation.  every day, on this fluid axis, i hope for a little grace – from others, from the universe, from myself.





and i try again.  my sweet poppo would remind anyone who was listening, “if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”  and so i do.





yesterday marked forty years since the day of my first marriage.  it was a sunny warm day in florida; i was wearing my sister’s gown, my sister-in-law’s train and white stiletto macramé sandals.  i carried a silk flower bouquet and the tiny white beaded purse i had gotten for my sixteenth birthday.  i had little time in front of the mirror, trying to share getting-ready-time with my lovely big sister, my matron-of-honor, who has a more perfected and lengthier getting-ready practice.  





at twenty-three, just three weeks after my college graduation, full of anticipation and excitement and hopes and dreams, a little unresolved trauma and not-just-a-little naiveté, i walked down the aisle to the good man who would become the father of my beloved children.  and somewhere, the hash mark collection started.  we did things well.  we were stinky at things.  and i absolutely take responsibility for my own stinkinesses, things that disrupted the horizon.  





it’s been years now since i have seen him.  time, in its wisdom and flow, has softened the ending, blurred the rough edges.  i am grateful for the decades we spent together and for the unique and powerful children we raised.  and i only wish the best of health and happiness for him and his wife.  someday i hope to see them and share laughter and stories and memories of our daughter and our son as they grew.  no one does this life all perfectly and sometimes it’s all much clearer as we reflect back, look at the shadows.  grace lingers in the air, waiting.





this past week has brought its own challenges and it has brought its own bits of devastating news for people in our concentric circles.  the circles widen and widen and we see the turmoil and angst and tragedy of others.  the horizon wobbles under us and we try to adjust, to straighten up, level out.  life is flying by.  we wake to another day to do it well or stink at it.  either one.  





and desiderata reminds us, “in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul…”  because some days we do it better than others.





“…be gentle with yourself.”





*****





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full of beautiful. [d.r. thursday]

	


	

					








i worry about the ferns. fragile, willowy, tender shoots determinedly growing up from under the pile of leaves waiting, decaying, protecting the garden through fall’s end and winter’s scourge until, finally, spring.  and then, there they are.  despite it all.  back in the northwest corner of the yard, tucked in along the fence line and next to the old garage.  





they start slowly, peeking out, and then – voila – they are taller, taller, and unraveling their curly tops, like a modern dancer, curling up one vertebrae at a time, opening and embracing dappled sunlight. without concern for any part of history or future, they just grow.  they are perennials, so keeping them healthy – a bit of simple nurture – ensures this fern garden in the back of our yard.





i’ve grown other plants in this yard through the years.  ornamental grasses, day lilies, ferns, hosta, a couple peonies, these are the thrivers.  purple iris, black-eyed susans, a planted lavender garden all fell to the wayside.  





the neighbor’s snow-on-the-mountain, creeping under the fence, devoured the iris.  wild mustard gave the black-eyed susans a run.  the lavender was taken over by boxwood elder on a rampage.  





but the delicate ferns…through dogdog’s puppyhood and now his adulthood…through the drought and maybe too much sun and maybe too much rain…through the late-late springs and the early winters…have survived.  





in each of them i see the fortitude of the dancer, practicing unfurling vertebrae by vertebrae, forgetting all else – all negativity, all lack, all the torrential storms – in the tender, rich, vibrant forward-movement of now.  full of beautiful.





“there is an entire forest
full of the most incredible flowers,
plants and trees inside you,
and you are ignoring all of it to nurture a single tree
that they planted inside your heart and abandoned.





the people who left you this way
don’t deserve to become your favourite stories to tell.
you are a massive forest full of beautiful and vibrant stories
and every single one of them deserves you more
than those that abandoned you to hell.”





(nakita gill – a forest story)





*****





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we can sit together. [two artists tuesday]

	


	

					








and in the hours of late evening we discovered it.  a song that spoke to us in every way.  





it wasn’t intentional.  we were intentionally watching an everest youtube, the highest of mountains, vicarious adventure.  





but there was this song.  we stopped the video and moved the cursor backward, to hear the song again.





“you and me.





we’re meant to be.





in the great outdoors.





forever free.”





it’s been nine years since we met face to face now.  nine years since baggage claim at o’hare.  nine years.  it doesn’t sound like an eternity; it just feels like an eternity.  and yet, not long enough.





because the moments i glance across the room and catch his gaze – well, it still takes my breath away.  he drives me crazier than probably anybody else on earth, but he can make me well up in the turn of a second.  





and the times we are inside, sitting and writing together, cooking in our old kitchen, happy-houring at the table in the sunroom, loving on our dogdog, mutually missing our babycat, planning trips…those times…are times that create a little bit of wonder.  





and the times we are outside, on a mountain, on a trail, on the sidewalk in the ‘hood, by the side of the lake in the shadow of an aspen stand, in the new black adirondack chairs…those times…are times that create more than a little bit of wonder.  





the wonder of finding, the wonder of reaching, the wonder of meeting, the wonder of walking this walk together.





we feel lucky.





eldar kedem got it right.





“we can sit together.





it’s so beautiful.”





*****





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the circle of life. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

	


	

					








sometimes asking a question is purely a matter of politeness.  you want the other person to know you value their thoughts, but, since you’ve already decided, their answer blurs into the gusty winds inside your mind and you do what you want to do anyway.





i can’t say that all the lost turtles and frogs and hurt birds and chipmunks and leg-damaged preying mantises in the wild have come home with us.  i can say that i wanted them to.  he generally feels that nature should be left to carry on in the circle of life (i can hear elton john singing now) and so i already know his answer to my “what should we do?” question.  we’ve come across kittens on trails and i’ve stared at him without a word as he sorts for something to say about wild cats.  of course there is nothing to really say about a tiny tabby in the woods, except that we are not really all that far from civilization and, surely, this cat belongs somewhere, so taking it home would equate to, well, kidnapping it.  that, for sure, stops any taking-it-home-ness from happening.





were it up to me, particularly in this empty-nest-time, all the sweet creatures we come across would be our little friends.  and the circle of life – if need be – would include a stint at our house, in our nest.  





and elton john would be happy.





*****





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our dogga. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

	


	

					








we didn’t order our dogga with stripes, but, had we ordered our dogga, we would have ordered exactly him.  he is an aussie full of aussie-quirks and amber eye-contact, a furball of vacuum-stalling potential, a lifesaver in every way our pets save us from ourselves and the world around us.





he is – most definitely – not perfect.  





though he knows he must sit-on-the-rug before going out – and wait for one of us to utter “ok” – he first must jump up and down, seemingly effortlessly, like an nba star looking for a basket.  then, with a sheepish i-couldn’t-help-it look on his face, he sits.  





though he knows he is not supposed to run along the back fence barking at the neighbordog, he must first run along the back fence and bark.  then, with a wink at the neighbordog, he returns diligently to the patio or the deck, fully expecting a treat for his “restrained” behavior.  





though he knows he is not supposed to pull on the leash during walks, the first few minutes are like taking a giant bungee cord for a walk – out and back, out and back – although recent days and the new use of the “wonder walker” have yielded a magical change, sans bungee-dog.





though he does not sing, he has several songs – the dogga-dogga song, the dad song, the mom song.  no other songs count on his chart, except the babycat song, which we sing for him when he is – or we are – missing his babycat.





though we cannot guess what he is thinking, his beautiful eyes give us eye contact that tell us everything we need to know.  





our dear friends have a puppy.  he is full of puppy-smell and puppy-teeth and sweet wriggly antics and is the variety of dog that doesn’t shed.  they are being very intentional about his training, which makes us think about the books we read, the videos we watched and the way dogdog turned out.  we weren’t as intentional in that phase of our lives nine years ago.  at least not about puppy-training.  maybe there’s still hope.  sigh. 





we visited together and caught up outside around the firepit the evening we met him, puppy in a fenced playpen off to the side, learning how to calm-himself-down-when-new-people-arrive.  we clearly need to start that part over with dogga.  





we drove home talking about that darling puppy.  our friends would love us to get a puppy now too.  that makes us laugh.  we are – oh so clearly – not ready for a puppy.  





we pulled into the driveway and, judging by his quick walk, david was as anxious to hug our dog as i was.  though dogdog was skeptical about the attention, especially since he could smell “puppy” all over us, he gave in to the lavish display.





because, though we didn’t order our dogga with stripes, though he sheds like dandelion fluff in the spring wind, though he sometimes tries our patience and is a bit doggedly stubborn about barking, though he has us wrapped around his little wagawag tail, he is exactly the dogga we need.





*****





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