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Tag Archives: mary oliver


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the pilot light. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

there was a tornado watch. because i am pretty storm-averse, i was vigilant about checking whether it would become a tornado warning. i have things prepped for such moments and have put them into practice each time a warning has come our way.

some storms, though, are not forecasted with such specificity. these – the ones we can’t prep for – are the stuff of bootstraps. these are the ones that test our levels of fear, our anxieties, our outrage, our limits of patience. we try not to imagine the worst as it all starts to shake out. we struggle. sometimes we simply flail and tread water, wondering when it all might stop. we are surprised by the people around us – in both good and not-so-good ways.

we’ve all been through these storms. to be human is to encounter them. health, relationships, work – the storms come and test us, buffeting our attachment to things-staying-the-same, our cling to the season.

and after a bit of time – and some mussing of our lives – we emerge.

and the pilot light* is still there. it’s still lit. the job of pilot lights, it hasn’t dimmed nor gone out. it’s just simply waiting. a tiny flame. waiting. and burning. and waiting.

and then, eventually, after a great deal of time or a very little time, the new season begins.

“…for some things there are no wrong seasons. which is what i dream of for me.” (mary oliver – hurricane)

*****

*crediting mark with this superb expression – “the pilot light”

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the magic dots. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

the magic dots showed up. it is a happy day to wake up and see them.

with just the right angle of the sun and just the right angle of the miniblinds across the room on the east side windows of the bedroom, they sometimes – but not all the time – appear.

it is a little bit like fairy dust, the twinkle at the end of a magic wand, floating bubbles, glimpses of angel wings. and what could possibly not be good about all that?!

i have awakened in this room most of the 35 years i have lived here, save for bedroom rebuild/remodeling time and other moments here and there. with five windows, there is no shortage of light. it is bright and, though – like rooms in old houses – not big, it is airy.

it is spirit-lifting to wake up and see them…these magic dots dancing on the wall. and, during a time that is testing my spirit in more ways than i care to think about, i am grateful for the dots.

they poke at me, prodding me with mary oliver urgency – “what do you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” “eh??” they add. “well?” they insist.

they know – these magic dots – that there is much to be done. they know there is much to work through, to see to the other end, to process.

but seeing them reminds me to carry them with me. to not forget the fairy dust, the magic, the bubbles, wings in the middle of it all. to hold it all more lightly.

for, like, the magic dots, it will all disappear as the sun rises and the rays tilt in a different angle. with one turn of the miniblinds, they will be gone.

but in the meanwhile, they invite me to dance with them.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

WINGED mixed media 24″x20″

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my nest. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

i felt it as we pulled in our driveway.

most of the time i can feel this. though sometimes, i am too busy or rushed. and though sometimes, i am frazzled with thoughts. and though sometimes, i am worried or distracted. and though sometimes, i have forgotten the simplicities in the midst of complexities.

i felt it though. and it was palpable.

the driveway greeted us as we pulled in – familiar cracks along its way. the wires overhead tugged and dipped in the wind. the leaves leftover from fall and winter blew in front of us. the house whispered, “welcome home.”

and this time – this time – i heard it. clear as day, as they say.

the whisper of a home – this place i have gone to for rest and nourishment, for creative work and rejuvenation, for the growing of beloveds and the gathering of friends, for belly-laughter and sob-filled tears, for refuge and solitude. this sanctuary. this place.

as we drove – on our way home – i could think of nothing better than to enter our home, hug on dogga, throw on my sweats and comfy boots, prepare a small meal. in this place.

my nest.

“this morning, in the fresh field,

i came upon a hidden nest.

it held four warm, speckled eggs.

i touched them.

then went away softly,

having felt something more wonderful

than all the electricity of new york city.” (mary oliver)

*****

THE WAY HOME from THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY ©️ 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood

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the place by the big trees. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

i spent much of last year looking back. way back. way past up-close. way way back – way way past the smallest of trees on the horizon. it was necessary and painful and shocking and mighty tedious.

“… the mind clings to the road it knows / rushing through crossroads / sticking like lint to the familiar…”
(mary oliver)

and then you peel back the lint that is dryer-vent-covering it all. you wipe off the fuzzy pieces. you take a good hard look at what’s really there, at what you have softened with the padding of trying to forget, of stuffing you have piled on top of your frame, of what you have buried, of the traintracks you have sprinted ahead on, leaving the veritable picture of perspective – the v of traintracks running far behind – away away – with trees so small you can barely discern they are trees. and there it all is. raw. 

and you can see it. and your brain tries to stop you from seeing it. both. so you sit with it – laden – burdened – in the retrospect of it all – connecting the dots, sometimes nodding your head in sudden understanding, sometimes eyes wide, horrified at it all.

it is surreal. you are back there. you can feel it. but you know – that in merely a blink – you can be where you are right now…where you are really. 

and suddenly, you are at a crossroads. you must choose between replacing the lint – tamping it back down and turning your face away from it – or recognizing it as a shield, pulling it all out – this ancient insulation – discarding it and then staring at what’s left – what is now feeling air and space and attention. 

“trauma creates change you don’t choose. healing is about creating change you do choose.” (michelle rosenthal)

and then, after some time – some processing, some sorting, some meaning-making, some swearing, much courage, sheer survival – you glance at all the baggage laying next to you – rolliebags and backpacks, crossbody bags and trunks, paper bags and reusable grocery sacks – and you pick up only that which you wish to carry. 

and you make your way back up the tracks to the place you really are. the place by the big trees.

*****

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

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dance of the magic slate. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

“as the wind loves to call things to dance / may your gravity by lightened by grace.” (john o’donohue – to bless the space between us)

we swoop the plastic sheet from the proverbial magic slate, clearing the picture that was so clearly there, and we start the new year. all images of the year we have tugged along with us – each of the years we have scribbled and tugged along with us are erased – even though all the evidence is still there as impressions on the wax. the slate is ready for a new drawing. the stylus is at hand. the wind is blowing. 

“it is a serious thing / just to be alive / on this fresh morning / in this broken world.” (mary oliver)

we babystep into this new day, crawling toward life goals and intentions, aware of our rapidly beating hearts and the fearlessness we are trying to adopt as a mantra. we are gingerly. we are bold. we hold hands. we brush others away. we are independent. we are always interdependent. we are open to horizons we don’t recognize, yet our pinkies hold onto barely discernible wistfulness threads, like helium balloons tied to our wrists, weightless yet there.

“when you should have felt safe enough to fall toward love…” (john o-donohue – for someone awakening to the trauma of his or her past)

we lean toward the whispers that pull us forward, trying to shed that which has tethered us behind. we recoil less. we are brave. we revisit. we recount. we shuffle the next step and the next, eventually picking up our feet, courageously trusting our breath – that it will truly still be with us a few yards down the way, that this scrutiny and release will be stretching. that our daring will eventually invite us to dance, just like the wind.

“i went searching in a foreign land and found my way home.” (sue bender)

and the universe holds us under the sun and the moon and we – actually – have more than we need. and it is a new year. and – no matter where we are – in any river – we are home. we are ready to dance.

“you are not a drop in the ocean. / you are the entire ocean in a drop.” (rumi)

*****

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


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

“…and i got saved by the beauty of the world.” (mary oliver)

there are the tiniest of moments – like this one – when everything harsh, everything wrought, everything dark or full of angst, everything of challenge just falls away. like the universe took a feather duster to the worries stoked up on your shoulders and reminded you. to breathe. to feel the realness of the moment. to be hyper-vigilant of all senses. to be in it.

it could just as easily slipped by, unnoticed. the fresh air, rich colors, the sun filtered through layers of pine, the scent of a humid summer day, the gravel path. it could have been lost.

but i am grateful to have stopped. i am grateful any time i remember to stop. to have perspective. to grasp onto the tiniests. to allow myself to be saved by the beauty of the world.

*****

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

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for right now. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

“the sun shines not on us but in us. the rivers flow not past, but through us. thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of the substance of our bodies, making them glide and sing. the trees wave and the flowers bloom in our bodies as well as our souls, and every bird song, wind song, and tremendous storm song of the rocks in the heart of the mountains is our song, our very own, and sings our love.” (john muir)

there have been moments – holy and glorious moments – when i remember that i am, yes, one with nature. i am no more or less a part of the whole than the heart-leaf on the side of the trail, no more or less a part of the whole than the rocks on the beach, no more or less a part of the whole than the cloud as it floats by. and i remember that in my tiny-ness – within the vastness – i could just as easily have been the energy of the leaf or the rock or the cloud.

“how will you spend your time?” asked the thru-hiker at the end of the trail. mary oliver asks the same, “what will you do with your one precious life?”

i realize – in these sacred and suspended moments when i can feel the threads of soul connect me to the trees, to the living plants, to the creatures – that i am, perhaps, spending too much time in worry.

i am alive. and, for right now, that is enough.

*****

GRACE from RIGHT NOW ©️ 2010 kerri sherwood

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lint-free. [d.r. thursday]

we stepped out of the forest and into the meadow. and it was filled with wildflowers, purples and hot pinks and blues and whites and bright yellow black-eyed susans. it is practically impossible not to smile in the presence of so many happy flowers. it is as if they are there simply to greet you, to cheer you, to make your way a tiny bit softer.

“and now i understand something so frightening, and wonderful—how the mind clings to the road it knows, rushing through crossroads, sticking like lint to the familiar.” (mary oliver – blue pastures)

we do. we scurry along, listing to the memories that perhaps least serve us, the road we’ve known, the road we know, the unfamiliar scary like the forest. our hand lingers over the delete button, but never touches it, knowing it isn’t just that simple. instead, we hold onto moments – clinging – to things that harm us, that take away from who we are, rather than celebrate who we are. we file them away, processing little as we store the times of our lives in boxes and bins in our minds. we come upon intersections and we often choose the harder road, bypassing the crossroad that offers rest or healing, the crossroad that offers choices we may never have considered, the crossroad that opens our lives.

“when will you have a little pity for every soft thing that walks through the world, yourself included.” (mary oliver – blue pastures)

the happy black-eyed susans whisper murmurings of encouragement to all who pass by. one must just be quiet and lint-free to hear them.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

SEE AN OWL – acrylic 24″ x 48″

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dazzled. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

“still, what i want in my life
is to be willing
to be dazzled—
to cast aside the weight of facts

and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.
i want to believe I am looking

into the white fire of a great mystery.
i want to believe that the imperfections are nothing—
that the light is everything—that it is more than the sum
of each flawed blossom rising and falling. and i do.”
(mary oliver – house of light)

truth be told, i am pretty easily dazzled.

diamonds on the lake, owl feathers on the trail, first fireflies, an unsolicited kiss from dogdog, the rising moon, constellations pinpricking the sky, tightly-wound buds, wide-open-blossom fragrance. catching my beloved’s eye, the gesture of hand to his heart, the ninth in harmony, the sinking sun through a forest of trees, birds gathering at 4am, sunrise, surprise texts from my grown children, squishy pillows, the first coffee, a bold red, a new thermal shirt, snowfall, the first glimpse of the mountains.

as everything changes – my body, my work, my impact, my voice – it is easier to float above the difficult when dazzled a dazzling number of times a day.

i don’t know who to credit with my easy-dazzability. i suspect it’s my sweet momma. she did not have a high bar for ecstatic. she cheered on the tiniest event, she buoyed even those she did not know. her gaze took it all in…it became fodder for extraordinary within the ordinary.

but, oh, the practice of being astounded, of having your breath taken away, of being startled by that which you’ve seen many times, of holding the horizon loosely like the reins of a horse – without restraint, your knees signaling “gallop”. full-fledged immersion in possibility, unabashed glee, awed.

when the lake glitters, it feels as if the day itself has reason to shimmer.

i realize now – already – and at long last – the shimmer – of light – is always there. no matter.

*****

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and wings. [two artists tuesday]

his legs wrapped tightly around the garden fence, the cicada gave in to his time of transformation.

i found him when i was watering. i bent down to pull a weed by the low fencing and there he was, clinging with all his might to the thin metal frame, following his call of nature, nymph to adult. the transition is recognizable. the two creatures look remarkably different, so it is easy to tell which is the mature cicada.

it’s the second time we have been witness to part of the cicada’s metamorphosis. the first time the cicada was clinging to the deck and we watched the whole fascinating process. this time, we came upon the cicada after it had shed its old skin, the outer exoskeleton having molted off into the dirt. both were profound for us. the giving over, the trusting of transformation, gaining wings, going on into next as something quite different.

“life is not so much about beginnings and endings as it is about going on and on and on. it is about muddling through the middle.” (anna quindlen)

and in the middle, the holding on. legs – and arms – wrapped around the garden fence of our lives, clutching for dear life. to be in the middle – sorting and pondering, full of wonder and angst – we can only trust that each next will arrive, that the on and on will not betray us, that we will not betray the on and on. the cicada surrenders, relinquishes any worry of what is to come.

and then, it wakes soon after, having pushed its way through the deadened shell. with wings. wings! exuberant noise fills the summer air. i know i will listen for our garden-fence-cicada on hot nights when the sun is setting and dusk is on the sky.

and we – in our metamorphosis from one day to another – sorting and pondering on our fence – begin to know that wings are possible. we learn that we have had them all along. we untuck them, test them out, flex a little, grow stronger. and we are astounded to learn – like the cicada – that we can fly.

“i want to be light and frolicsome. i want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing, as though i had wings.” (mary oliver)

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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