reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

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some questions for you. [merely-a-thought monday]

my son shares his name. it’s his middle name. wayne.

it was in the middle of my second pregnancy we lost my vastly-loved big brother. my little girl was two; my little boy not yet arrived. i had lost grandparents before that. but, somehow, despite our sadness in these losses, in their older-age, it seemed a natural part of the life cycle. my brother was different. it was today, 31 years ago. and he was merely 41, which is twenty-three years younger than i am at this moment.

though my brain somehow grasped the details of his cancer, my mind couldn’t wrap itself around how it was possible that the world could go on if he could no longer feel it. i still struggle with this. i am not naive enough to think it all ceases because of one – but the lack of the act of feeling, the passion of feeling, the tactile, the visceral of feeling – all this – it felt – no, feels – inordinately complicated to me. the full-stop. surely, in the moments i ponder this is when i realize how utterly futile it is to try and control anything, to be utterly absorbed in stuffff, to not stop and notice the tiny delicate flowers on the path.

we are reading a book together. though the actual book has nothing at all to do with this post or my brother or pausing on trails in the woods, the title – for me – is relevant: i have some questions for you.

i do, my big brother. i have some questions for you.

i know you know, bro, how adored you always were. did you take it with you? can you feel it on this other plane you are on?

i know you loved coffee ice cream, hot cups of coffee, birthday cake. are your senses as vibrant? did you smell the peonies in our backyard? can you now catch a whiff of the lavender, the mint, the basil? can you feel the sun? are you aware of the breeze – or – are you the breeze itself?

i know you loved to hear neil diamond, loved to play guitar and sing, loved to feel your hands on projects of wood. do you float in and out now, catching snatches of song, feeling the pick in your hand, hearing the scroll saw start up?

i know you loved. are you right here – loving – right now? are you right next to your wife, your beloved children and your grandchildren, and, if we could touch incandescence, the full spectrum of color, translucent gossamer, could we touch you?

i know you are not in a physical form on this earth. but are you simply unseeable? are you, in turn, coffeesitting with our mom and dad and then swooping in to somehow steadfastly drop wisdom or strength onto the rest of us?

i know you probably don’t have any questions. but i do. and, as my big brother, you will need to find a way to answer them, as i am counting on you to explain all this.

i’ll stop – wayne – at the delicate flowers in the woods. i’ll slow down and dance on the deck. i’ll try not to worry about the angst of the day-to-day. i’ll feel and i’ll drop into pause.

there are times i know you are here. there are times i know our sweet momma and poppo are here. i wish it were easier to see you.

in some kind of trust – right smack in the middle of grace and not-knowing – i do believe you are the wind.

*****

you’re the wind ©️ 2005 kerri sherwood

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ANGEL YOU ARE ©️ 2002 kerri sherwood (this song is not jazz, nor does rumblefish own any portion of the copyright or publishing rights of this song)

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happy endings. [k.s. friday]

i am a fan of happy endings. i would guess that’s something on which we likely agree. i mean, who doesn’t love any sort of happy ending – quiet or gushy – any part of the happy spectrum.

and so, in the past couple of weeks – with people we love close-in struggling with serious issues – i want to linger in the happy ending. perspective has slapped us upside the head a few times over these weeks and, teetering a little on shaky ground, we are holding firmly to happy conclusions.

on days when hikes generate deep pondering or the dinner table yields questions about uncertainty, googling about things we know little, we tend to list to an evening of a little couch-sitting and a movie of choice that will – most definitely – have a happy ending.

this could be a hallmark movie. or it could be my big fat greek wedding, which makes us laugh every single time, dozens of times later. it could be about time or love actually or the proposal. it could be sweet home alabama or ps i love you or the family stone. the fuzzy purple zippy dvd holder is the keeper of our cherished movies and we can pick pretty much anything from it and sink into the couch cushions, sighing.

we don’t feel like we are sticking our heads into the sand. we don’t feel like we are fancying escapism (though who doesn’t?!). we don’t feel like we are pollyanna-ing our way into the lull of sleep. we are painfully aware of the precariousness of it all.

instead, we feel like we are reminding ourselves of the possibility. we are immersing in the potential of goodness. we are restoring that place inside from which we draw strength that we might pass on to others, the place from which we can hold others close, lift them up, ask the universe for grace and their healing.

we are taking a deep breath and seeking the happy ending. remembering that they do exist.

*****

FREEFALLIN’ IN LOVE ©️ 2002 kerri sherwood, sisu music productions inc. (Note: this is not jazz, nor does rumblefish own any copyright or publishing rights to this song.)

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our parents. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

neither one of them knew what it was. clearly, they both lived in a cave before i came along in their lives. but still.

“it’s a butterspreader,” i informed them. for your corn-on-the-cob. you put the butter pat in it, hold down the handle and the curved plastic screen perfectly spreads melty butter on your cob.

they stared at me as if they had just landed on plymouth rock and – supposedly – were the ones who literally discovered new land.

in unison, the choirboys said, “i’ve never seen one of those!”

i laughed. as a non-butter-user, it doesn’t matter to me if i pull the cornbutterspreader out of the drawer, but i knew that it might matter to them – one potential butter-user-depending-on-the-day and one devoted butter-user.

my sweet momma had these kind of snazzy devices. she had the yellow metal-pronged corn thingies to hold corn-on-the-cob as well. long islanders, we were pretty loyal cobcorn eaters in the summer. back then, it was all about the biggest aluminum pot in the house and boiling water. but now, my sweet momma would have loved to see 20 cut off the ends of the cob (including the stringy end), putting the whole thing into the microwave for 4 minutes. as an alternative, we could have placed it on the grill as well – unshucked – but the microwave was a little quicker.

it was a day that kind of celebrated our parents – without our really knowing or planning it.

i carmelized the onions before i added the beer – milwaukee’s best. i knew columbus was watching, laughing with glee as i put the brats in to boil. momma jeanne said they were just like his when we made them in iowa, so we have a stamp of approval. we had beans – because my momma and my poppo never had brats or dogs without having beans. and sauerkraut because, well, 20 was raised by his momma on sauerkraut. (you don’t want to know how often he eats this.) and watermelon…well, every one of our parents loved watermelon. we were our parents – wouldabeen 102, 102 today, 90, 99, still 100 and still 88.

today’s my sweet momma’s birthday. she’s the wouldabeen 102. in the way of grief, the moments sneak up and take me by surprise. suddenly, i am pitched forward into desperately-missing-her from the ever-present missing-her. it doesn’t take much.

it’s the cardinal in the backyard. it’s telling her about the new birdbath. it’s the triumphs i want to share and the failures when i wish for a hug. it’s a cup of tea or morning coffee. it’s early rising or wee-hours-pondering. it’s chicken soup. it’s rye toast. it’s upside-down shampoo bottles. it’s blue eyes. it’s hearing “to thine own self be true”. it’s her “don’t underestimate me”. it’s “i know you can do it”.

and it’s the silly corn butterspreader.

happy happy birthday my sweet momma.

*****

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yes. proud. [merely-a-thought monday]

on friday i projected being proud to be there – at chicago pridefest. i underestimated it.

even in its boisterous volume – loop high-fidelity-noise-reduction-earplugs and all, even in its crowded-can-hardly-move streets – take a breath, take a breath, take a breath, even in its vast array of body-expression – everyone seeming so comfortable on this day in their own skin, i felt at home. there was not one time we experienced any rudeness. there was not one time anyone excluded us. there was not one time anyone looked us up and down, measuring, discerning, approving or disapproving. there was not one time anyone seemed in-your-face superior. there was freedom. there was the peace of acceptance. there was – love of one another – as far as the eye could see.

our son’s friends ran to greet us and a tiny little girl passed out rainbow happy face buttons. we browsed the merch booths and returned to the corner in time for our son’s performance. an EDM artist, his show was seamless and powerfully energetic.

i might have worn different shoes. the health app on my phone said 9.7 miles. i’m thinking it was more. it was impossible not to dance, so i’m pretty sure that added to the steps i took, but keen sandals are not really dancing shoes. i don’t know if the tevas would have been better. what i do know is i had really happy feet and that doesn’t even start to compare to my heart.

though most of the time i watched my-son-on-stage-in-his-element…his imperative, as david said, “making music that sets people free.” i turned around a few times, to look at the crowd behind us.

people blissfully dancing, moving, touching, hugging, smiling. there didn’t seem to be one iota of self-consciousness or doubt. it wasn’t about wondering if they belonged, if their actions – or their very beings – would be measured against some heteropatriarchal b-s.

and i was so proud.

proud of our son and his music. proud of his really kind friends. proud of the people dancing around us. proud of the fishnet statements and the rainbows and the exposed skin.

this is what the world should model itself after. this is what our country should model itself after. this is what our communities should model themselves after. period.

and then – in the forwarding of love as the only north star – all could be proud.

*****

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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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anytime you want. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

there is a scene in “sweet home alabama” when – as a little girl and a little boy on a beach – he tells her he wants to marry her so he can kiss her any time he wants. later – after the whole circle of the story plays out, the camera returns to the two of them, grown, on the beach in a pouring-rain-lightning-storm. he asks her why she would want to be married to him and she responds, “so i can kiss you anytime i want.”

it is a classic moment.

were we all able to stay in that simplicity, relationships between two people – any two people – who love each other might have a better chance in this complex world. so much work goes into our love relationships, and sometimes we all forget they are about just that – love.

yesterday a friend told us that – during covid – after her husband had a heart attack – along with many other serious difficulties – she was unable to see him for weeks. and then. now, she is grateful to be able to touch his skin. simply that. touch his skin. it doesn’t take away the tough moments or the potential arguments or slights or angsts, but she tells us – eyes glistening – that, for her, it is about touching his skin.

sometimes it is simply a kiss. sometimes it is touching skin. sometimes it is a dance.

anytime you want.

*****

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the time between now and the wind. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

pretty soon he will be ten.

it doesn’t seem quite possible – this time has flown by.

but 10.

our cherished dogga is beginning to show signs of age…slowing down a bit, sleeping more, not always waiting at the door, but meeting us there as soon as he hears us walk in.

i guess aussies are typically with us for about twelve years, with some maybe as long as somewhere between 13 and 15. if we could vote, we’d vote for one of those, so long as he felt well in those years. because, like you, we know that the next two years will fly by as well. and that just makes us cringe.

the wander-women-thru-hiking-superstars-in-our-book once spoke about their plans for the future. they had downsized and sold off homes, sold off stuff, bought an rv named “biggie mama”, planted it in colorado springs and now travel all over thru-hiking, exploring and adventuring. they talked about their summers, the time of their biggest adventures. last year they were going to bike across the united states, but their plan got waylaid and they decided to set it aside when they felt unsafe on the roads which had no provisions for long-distance bicyclists. they said – not verbatim – that they wanted to use their summers wisely. if they – at around 60 and 65 – had another 20 good summers or so, then they wanted to use them in the happiest of ways, feeling centered and grounded in their plans.

another 20 good summers or so.

that made me stop.

and think.

it made me wonder about my sweet momma and whether she, in the last twenty years of her life, thought about the potential of those last twenty years. she moved on to the air around us at almost-94, so those last twenty years or so started in her 70s.

in her last years i saw momma often. and david met her on nine trips we made in her last eighteen months. they became fast friends. but what about before that? what about in all that time i lived in wisconsin and she lived in florida? i wonder now.

did she think about this tiny fact: because of distance and travel expense and busy schedules and all that life places in our actual and emotional way, that if i had only been able to see her once a year in her last twenty years, she would have only seen me twenty more times.

it’s a sobering thought.

very.

and it applies to all of us. even more so because we don’t have any guarantee about the number of years – or summers – we actually have.

and so, i’m thinking that living like our beloved dogdog: exuberantly happy to see us each time we re-enter the room, full of love and not-even-one grudge for anything we may have done, missing us when we are apart, a curiosity perspective willing to learn any new trick, anxious to be around us simply to be around us – without expectation, eager to go along anywhere we are going, truly unconditional – may be the best way to live ANY amount of time between now and the wind.

*****

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the columbine. [d.r. thursday]

the columbine grew on the east side of the house. colorado’s state flower is blue columbine. but – here – it grows pink on the farm and is called origami red and white. delicate and beautiful, healthy and thriving, it clearly loves the dirt and air and sun of iowa.

we were sitting in a circle on the southside, trying to avoid the windy wind. it was happy hour, on a day fraught with emotion. we had said our final goodbyes to columbus, d’s dad, bringing him back to his hometown in iowa – a tiny morsel of a town, bustling with family and traditions and giant farm equipment and passed-down farms. the southside – where most of the tractors and machines and accessories-of-which-i-know-no-names were parked. the southside – the direction the deer ambled from, late in the day, waning light their protection. the southside, the old farmhouse blocking most of the gusts, letting the sun warm us.

we had had lunch up at the hillside bar and grill – the place where you could get humongous pork tenderloin sandwiches – where the tenderloin hung off both sides of the bun. just the sheer mention of those used to bring a big smile to columbus’ face. many of the people at lunch chose those in his memory. we didn’t, but we snagged a tiny bite from cousin kate’s plate, an absolutely necessary respect-nod to david’s dad.

and now, here we sat – adirondackchair-bagchair-adirondackchair-bagchair-adirondackchair-bagchair – all in a circle, just sitting and talking and being quiet.

we sipped from wineglasses and bottles of water in the later afternoon circle. we all talked about life-we’d-missed-together, life-now and life-one-of-these-days.

kate looked over at us and asked if we’d ever move from wisconsin, if we’d consider going to the mountains. though we hesitated a moment to clear space in our current-angsting for actual dreaming, we nodded, and i added, “of course we’d love to be in colorado. the high mountains always call us.”

we don’t have any idea what that might look like. we don’t know when that might be.

we just know that we feel like happy-go-lucky columbine when we are breathing the air of the rockies, our feet in the dirt of a deep aspen-lodgepole-pine trail, under a colorado sun.

*****

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the red adirondacks. [two artists tuesday]

these chairs – privy to a lot of life – over just a few days – in warm iowa sun.

we gathered to celebrate columbus’ life, to inurn his ashes, to solemnly and with great gaiety – for that is how columbus lived – say the final-of-the-final goodbyes.

it was the game of bags (cornhole for the rest of you), the bubble wands, the hula-hoops and columbus’ old 33rpm records we brought with us i think he really loved. we made his brats with beer and onions. we made the pasta sauce he liked. there was more; a lotta-lotta food – just the way he liked it. mason jars with wine and a cooler full of water and sparkling hard seltzers and beers-just-up-a-notch-from-columbus’-favorites. and he – from the next plane over – held his beloved wife’s hand as she navigated this time in his growing-up land.

the three adirondack chairs from the east-facing porch were moved, following the activity. down the big grassy hill for bags and around the south side of the house closer to gracie-cat’s-plugged-in-water-bowl to escape the howling wind. back to the porch for happy hour and in a big circle in the lawn to toast his momma’s first hostess cupcake, bag chairs a little teetery on the uneven ground.

you had to watch for the thistles in the grass – you couldn’t just run around willy-nilly without being – yowsa! – aware. but somehow that reminds me of life itself.

it was a time of red. bright bright red. a time of brilliant stand-out moments we will clutch onto, like the hugs we shared at the cemetery and at the old screen door past nightfall the last evening.

though life is like a box of chocolates – yes, forrest gump – it is also like an adirondack chair you drag from place to place. it’s about comfort, simplicity and peacefulness. an intention.

you can sit and watch life, take it all in.

you can do life and then, rest.

both, and.

we took turns with the red adirondacks. that’s what family does.

*****

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bees and toddlers. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

the dandy dandelions are baaaaack and we are celebrating them! i cannot help but smile looking at dandelions. i have a rich history with them. i suppose many moms do.

so, for many reasons – the bees included – we won’t be quiiiite as obsessive about ridding our lawn of them. not to mention, they are stubborn and will likely return despite any attempts to mitigate them. i have found taproots of great length underground – dandelions aspiring to be large carrots, channeling the subterranean tenacity of root vegetables.

but – in the end – even with this year’s gargantuan effort to have nice grass and earn the respect of the GrassKing, we need our pollinators and we need flowers for tiny toddlers to pick. so, we will dial it back a little bit on total eradication and live in the memories of fists full of dandelions.

*****

FISTFUL OF DANDELIONS ©️ 1999 kerri sherwood

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