and in her waking-up, in the tease of spring, in the liminal space between seasons, mother earth offers up her flowers. it’s a tiny posy of possibility, an olive branch extended to stave off impatience as we pine for warmer days, for everything to green up. and, in this waiting zone, these dried flowers spur our imagination, carry us forward.
it’s the interim times – the periods in-between – the time spent in the hallway before the next door opens – these are the reluctant times. we are reluctant to sit in the hall. we are reluctant to wait and see. we are reluctant to accept a zone of time sans shape. we think it all – the minutes and seconds, hours and years – needs definition. we are reluctant to be still. we don’t understand what feels like a screeching halt. we yearn to move, yet we are frozen in fallow.
but we are morphing. we are beautiful winter nosegays tucked into mason jars. we are march and april. we are stoking up. we are no less beautiful than verdant june and july. we are just different.
and for this time – we are somewhat rustic, somewhat fragile. we are color-muted now to be opulent later. we are the quiet before the fortissimo, meek before rackety. we are simply waiting.
we read the same paragraph over and over again, listen to the same strains of music time and again, sit and pace and sit and pace. we are the dried wildflowers, the straining buds, the transitional space, the interlude. we are the hallway.
and then.
*****
UNTITLED INTERLUDE from RELEASED FROM THE HEART Šī¸ 1995 kerri sherwood
it is full of seeds, full of possibility, full of tomorrows.
and it will all spin and float and whirligig – just like these maple seedpods.
though wrinklier now than in last spring or last summer – and, really, ever more wrinkly – these samaras are ever viable and will coax saplings from the ground once they disperse. with big breezes at their backs, the winds of change, the tug of relevance, in fields of gold and forests of native plants. though they have been dormant, though they haven’t germinated for months or even years, they remain alive.
alive.
resilient.
for placing samaras in a bowl of water, it is the seedpods that sink that have seeds likely to germinate. the others – the ones floating – are less likely, though sometimes it simply takes a little soak in warm water, a little good soil and a continued cold blast of air for some time – a bit of fallow – that will draw out the remaining life.
it’s funny. you’d think that the test for a maple seed would be it if floats in water – floating – the ability to rise above that which wishes to drown you. but the real test – for the likely viability of a maple seed – is to hope that it sinks. clearly, maple seeds hold their breath.
and then, the seeds breathe. out of the bottom of the bowl in which they have sunk. and the seeds sprout. even from the trauma they have endured, the inertia they have tolerated. and the seeds grow big strong maple trees, even though buckthorn and other toxic invasives would prefer them stifled. the maples withstand, persist, ride it all out.
so – for those of you out there who are thinking 65 is run-roughshod-over, washed-up, put-out-to-pasture, tested by toxins, no-longer-relevant, done – i have some news.
some good news.
it is the steadfastness of a drowned seedpod.
or, in the case of a wrinkled-up-old-floater, just a little warm water, a little good soil, a little cold fallow and then, a little sun.
either way, watch out. 65 is only the beginning.
*****
THAT MORNING SOMEDAY from BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL Šī¸ 1996 kerri sherwood
IN A SPLIT SECOND from AS SURE AS THE SUN Šī¸ 2002 kerri sherwood — PLEASE NOTE: This song is not “jazz” nor is any part of its copyright or publishing rights owned by Rumblefish.
the magic wand – infused by the sun – stood tall in the reeds. if only i could pluck it out and take it with, still full of its magic, still glowing, i thought.
it was a brilliant day. the sky blue-blue, the air crisp, the trail ready for us, quiet, winding. we pass by marshes and bogs and woods – the hoofprints of deer preceding us, crossing the way from safe-place to water source.
and then the magic wand glimmered and reached out, tapping me on the head, bestowing glimmer magic, begging the question: and what will you do with this?
i carried the glimmer as we hiked. it was quite like carrying a toddler – full of energy and zeal, ready to get down out of my arms and run, run, run. the glimmer knew that it had work to do and there is no time to spare. for the power to light dark places is not to be underestimated, the ability to drop a spark into ash is not to be underplayed. the glimmer was anxious and excited, both.
and yet, the magic wand knows this: that relighting the dark and touching the grief of flame doused by others, the pain of trauma caused by others is not easy. dark cannot be readily relit if there are only shadows and no room for light. grief cannot be easily eased if there is no corner of the heart untouched by it. pain cannot be addressed without balm to the wound.
the glimmerwand was trembling at the end of the trail, still held in my arms. i wanted to hold onto it, to believe it would be that simple.
but the wand knew better. like the extended finger of ET the extra-terrestrial, it touched the center of my chest, through down vest and thick thermal and baselayer shirt, directly to my heart.
and it told me it would always be there – this light from the sun. it would wait and wait. and it would be with me – with me – diffusing fear, enlivening exhaustion. and i could reach down and touch it any time, this glimmer, and it would warm me up from inside out.
i would be lying if i told you i didn’t cry at the string shop.
i did cry. i’m crying now.
i am a professional pianist. a composer. proudly a yamaha artist with an intensely beautiful C5 in my studio and fifteen albums plus of vulnerability out in the world. i play the guitar and the ukulele. i dabbled on the trumpet in college for five minutes or so. but, oh…the cello.
the moment i touched my cello i had a bond with it. and, holding the idea close of learning to play mournfully heart-draining melody lines, i purchased it. because artists dream, i played.
but reality is reality.
and now – with 45° of wrist forward range of motion – my cello needed a new home. it’s just a fact.
i held onto it long after i knew this. it’s hard to let go a dream. and i’ve never before sold a beloved instrument.
yet, cellos – like all instruments – need to be loved on: played, listened to, tweaked, played more. a paesold, german-made, warm and resonant in tone, it begged to come out of the corner of my studio. though i tried to ignore it, it is like ignoring the stare of an australian shepherd who clearly wants you to do something (and we have experience with this). so my cello kept staring at me and staring at me. even without entering my studio – for i have not spent much time in there in these most recent years – i could feel the stare of the cello through the wall.
until finally.
i know this cello is valuable. yet, the string shop i sold it to – for much less than its value – was full of string music and luthiers working, a performance space and a full marching line of cellos on the wall. it will not be lonely as it waits to be re-homed.
the shopowner knew how hard it was for me to sell this cello, to leave it behind, to leave at all.
i touched its maple and spruce, exquisitely varnished. i spoke to my cello. and i blew it a kiss as we left, entirely and utterly choked-up.
and i wondered how my cello-dream might morph into something else.
because it’s still raw.
*****
LAST I SAW YOU from THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY Šī¸ 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood
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though i know it won’t really matter to either of them, i’ll hang a pair of tiny overalls and a pair of tiny first-walking-shoes on a peg in each of their rooms.
i was deep in memories going through and washing all of their infant and toddler clothing. touching each and every piece, i kept thinking, “surely he/she would want me to save this!!”. i seriously pondered making them quilts out of their childhood clothing, sure that they would treasure these. until i realized something.
it’s me who remembers these tiny clothes. it’s me who remembers my little girl – tucked into her bear chair – a stack of books next to her, absorbed. it’s me who remembers my little boy – kneeling on the road rug with buildings and streets and stop signs, matchbox cars lined up or zooming with his little hand. they were tiny toddlers with no real thought about memorizing forever and ever what they had on. i’m the one who remembers what they were wearing. i’m the one who remembers the onesies, the sleepers and the footie pajamas. i’m the one who remembers the tiny jeans and turtlenecks. i’m the one who remembers the polly flinders smocked dresses and sweet rompers. i’m the one who remembers the oshkosh overalls.
so i’ll hang the oshkosh b’goshes upstairs anyway. and i’ve decided to hold out just a few items from the big ikea bags that we will deliver to the mission in chicago. and i’ll cut yoyos out of these and make a small yoyo hanging that i can place on a hook in our bedroom. that way, anytime i want to get lost in the memories of my amazing adult children as babies and toddlers, i can touch a little fabric that will bring me back.
*****
I WILL HOLD YOU FOREVER AND EVER Šī¸ 2005 kerri sherwood
i could feel it as we entered the woods.âeven in the cold.âeven on a mucky trail.âespecially in the damp fog.âit wrapped around me, my body relaxed and i could breathe.â
we are in the middle of a lot.âlike you, life swirls and dips and is taking us places we didn’t expect.âlike you, we don’t sign up for the angsts, the challenges, the aloneness of some of it.âbut it is there, nevertheless.â
it’s in those times – in the fermatas of those times – that we need be in the cathedral.âfor us, that means stepping into the bowed trees in this forest, their very branches arching over us.âfor us, that means walking, hiking, trekking in the quiet.âit’s then that i can hear.
and perspective – arriving on glorious air – reminds me.âof my smallness in all of this.âof an imperative to not take every single thing personally.âof release and of healing in the mist.âof a bigger presence that is indeed wrapping around me.âand is always there.âsilently tapping my shoulder.â
i step into the trees and i instantly can feel it – that this is the only day.âi can throw it away, like i often have – for we all forget.âor i can immerse in it.âknowing it is now.â
i can’t change – so much – what is.âi can’t affect – so much – what will come.âi certainly can’t transform what was.âand all of that will be waiting for me, after the trail, post-cathedral.
but i’m slowly learning – ever-so-slowly – how to stand in it all.âi’m learning how to accept it, how to move in it, how to move through it, how to get to next.âsometimes.
the bigger picture – under the cathedral of sky – gives me air and every now and then – just in the nick of time – interrupts my moment of worry and chastens me to feel the right now.â
that air is always with us – the exhale of wise old trees and the stardust of those before us.â
*****
ALWAYS WITH US from AS IT IS Šī¸ 2004 kerri sherwood
mid-december.âwe are hiking.âour favorite local trail that we know so well.âcarols are playing in my head as i sort through the christmas tasks yet to do, a little shopping left to finish.âwe round the bend and there – stretching in long shadows from a low sun across amazingly-green-green grass – is a music staff of lines.â
if there is any season that is closely associated with music, it is this.âthe shadow-staff pushes my focus into memories as we walk.â
i am deep into advent preparations back there in the recesses of thought.âit’s been a bit since i have allowed myself to really think about it.âin my last position as a minister of music i brought three decades of experience, the wisdom absorbed from many congregations, intuition gleaned as a stage artist and performer, and a heart full of dedication to the community.âthough it may not seem apparent to a churchgoer (or any religious institution attendee) the research and time that a music director will undertake for the music in that venue is immense.âwhen it is well done, there is more to it than assigning a few songs to a few slots in a service.
the other day we had old-fashioneds with our dear friends.âwe stood at their kitchen counter and jen brought out a new recipe along with a very nice bottle of bourbon and deluxe cherries and an orange, complete with pre-cut curly peels for the side of the glasses and swizzle sticks.âit was lovely – an experience in itself – we celebrated our time together in this season.âas we each took sips following her cocktail-making, she looked up and said, “wow.âthis is really bourbon-forward!”.âit was too much, too strong, too bourbon-ego, too solo.âyowza!âto continue to sip on a bourbon-forward old-fashioned can leave you cold to old-fashioneds in the future; it may even kill your yen for an old-fashioned.âit will definitely undermine your bartending je ne sais quoi and the bar you are serving may suffer from your mixology.âwe all laughed and added some squirt to tone it down, swizzle-sticking to perfection.âand suddenly – with jen’s good instincts – an exquisite old-fashioned, all ingredients integrated!
this morning we listened to the song that i am attaching to this post.âit’s called “you’re here” and i wrote it while i was rehearsing the choir for the christmas cantata i arranged in 2019.âit was recorded on an iphone sans proper mics with an out-of-tune church piano, so it’s pretty raw tape (so to speak).âthe thing it reminded me was of my approach as a minister of music.â
for me, any notes on a music staff in a church need be about resonance.âhow might i help the people there connect with their faith, that which cannot be seen, that which is fragile and strong, that which elicits love and joy and many questions, and that which tethers us to each other in the community?âany worthy minister of music knows that is fluid and knows that each year in their work will bring more answers.âthis is not something you start out knowing.âit is a practice and one must be humble enough to be learning from those around you, honing as you go.âone must bring one’s game – professionalism, collaboration and service-oriented, stellar learned gut on-the-fly flexibility, tenderness and sensitivity in delivery, the innate ability to shape a worship service and its emotional journey, the buoying of others, joy-joy-joy of creating music and emotion together, the integration of every musical gift you have been given.âand love.âit’s what you put forward.
because i had never experienced it – ever- before – in any position i held, there are days i still wonder about being fired – particularly in the middle of a global pandemic – particularly after eight years tenure there.âwondering, even now – three years later.âespecially at christmastime.âbecause in every way i knew how – in the music programming of any church in which i was involved or employed – i was the squirt in the old-fashioned.â
oh well.âin the words of john o’donohue, âupheavals in life are often times when the soul has become too smothered; it needs to push through the layers of surface under which it is buriedâĻ.it reminds us that we are children of the eternal and our time on earth is meant to be a pilgrimage of growth and creativity.â
i get these specific emails – practically every day.âthey are from some church-administrative-oriented website.âthe latest emails address church staff and salaries.âoh my!âwhat a can of worms that is.âthough i don’t usually open them, i was forced to one day – the devil made me do it.âthe email was called “why fair compensation matters” and the first lines in the email read, “we believe when those employed to service in the church are paid adequately and fairly, they’re free to focus on their ministry work.âthe result? freedom from financial burdens and a flourishing ministry.”âflourishing.âit makes me think of green grass on the trail – even in december – despite all odds.
yes. yes.âjust as in choice of bourbon – or, for that matter, bartenders – you will get what you pay for, what you value.âremember – you are about your customers and their experience – the community in your seats and on your barstools.âskimp at the bar and the reputation for your old-fashioneds will get you in the end. likewise, the thing you don’t want in your place of worship?âthe bourbon-forward director.âit’s too much, too strong, too bourbon-ego, too solo.ânot enough squirt.
it is truly about what you put forward – in your life, in your work, in love – and how you smush it all around, integrating it, with a swizzle stick.
merry advent from my place off the bench, sans baton.
in most rehearsals, i would remind the choir that their smile could be heard. there is a major difference to the timbre of voice brought forward with or sans smile. the same is true with speaking; even when you are not seen, the difference in tone is distinguishable.
it’s the season of the christmas cantata – a major work of multiple pieces with various voicings, instrumental lines, accompaniment and narration – closer to an hour in length. i’m writing this on the sunday morning that was usually chosen as the day of performance – the second sunday in december. i can’t even begin to remember how many cantatas i’ve directed – and written and arranged – through my decades as a minister of music. just recently a facebook memory came up – it was my post thanking the choir and worship band at a church where we had just performed such a work. the creation of narrative and song is exhilarating – for both director and participants – and everything drives to the downbeat. there is a glow that emanates from such a group – these people who have diligently prepared a musical piece of larger extent – and the camaraderie that weaves its way through – it is joy.
it’s been a few years now since i have directed a cantata. i’m guessing it’s a few years since many of the people who participated have sung or played a cantata. not every minister of music or choir director is up to it and some choose other programming. while you are preparing weekly anthems for sharing in service you are concurrently rehearsing this large work, so it takes time and energy, a compositional spirit, an innate ability to discern cantatas of value, ingenuity, the ability to rearrange on the fly, the belief in showcasing your choir – as a choir – accommodating any ability level, the recognition that simplicity is potent, much flexibility and humor, meticulous planning and true dedication. it is knowing as a conductor – in the moment after the downbeat – that you will merely guide this integrated group of singers and musicians through this visceral experience of purity. yours is a backseat to the magic – this is not your microphone. it is an undertaking not for the meek.
to say that i miss cantata-day would be understating. the gift of music is to make resonant that which is hard to see, that which is not tangible. the gift of music is to evoke powerful imagery and to open emotions tucked away. the gift of music is to bring forward beauty and the magnificence of producing something together. the gift of music is to offer just that – the gift of music. impactful, moving, music has the ability to change souls.
we pass the leaf on the trail – so very obviously lips curled in a smile. i think about all the times i have urged a singer to smile, all the times i have listened to the difference between smiling and not smiling – like the difference between the keys of d minor and e minor. vast.
and right now – as i write this – i wonder how many choirs are gathered on chancels, singing their hearts out, smiling inside and out.
to sit at a bistro table – to eat a meal, to sip wine, to talk and linger – such a simple pleasure, so rich, brimming with visions of sidewalk cafes and closely sharing time. we bring to any table the joy of being together, the gift of gathering. there is not much Lovely that a bistro table and wrought iron chairs doesn’t elicit for me.
what we bring to the table…this pause in our day…a sacred preparing of foods for those we care about. in those moments of frenetic movement, of too-busy-busy-ness, of emotional or physical overload, this pause – at the table – to slow down and relish taste – to breathe the air of another – to sate our hunger and stoke our energy – moments we so often rush through.
and so, i think maybe i will approach any table instead as if i am about to sit at a bistro table, about to hold time in a little bit of suspension to enjoy whatever the meal may be – simple or fancy – unadorned or with a beautiful table-setting. i’ll bring to the table my utter appreciation for sustenance, for those i am gathered with – even if alone – for the act of living. i’ll bring to the table my knowing that this ritual of goodness – to eat, to carry on, to experience hunger, to eat – is a privilege i have enjoyed my whole life – even when my hunger was bigger but my dinner was cornflakes. i’ll bring to the table gratitude for taste, for texture, for spice and organic, for the delicious.
and i’ll sit at the table acknowledging the very moments there. i’ll collect my table-sittings in my oeuvre of song and prose that will scatter someday into the galaxy. too often we forget we are merely blips in the compendium of the universe and each good moment that is ours is truly a gift of time, a wonder.
and so, i’ll bistro-table each meal.
*****
GOOD MOMENTS from THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY Šī¸ 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood
i’m trying to decide just how vulnerable to be, how brutally honest, how much to share. it’s like sitting on the fulcrum in the middle of the seesaw…you can choose either way from the pivot point.
this lovely couple – who we considered extended family and saw every sunday – was next door at the garden club’s secret garden event. we saw them from our deck, waving to us over the neighbor’s fence. we gestured we’d meet them in the front yard. giant hugs later, we started a little catching up, having not seen each other in years now. they had family tales and travel tales and many tales of adventure.
they told us they missed us. we were grateful to hear they missed our “energy” and “the fun we brought”. they asked about us.
he asked if i had a position now. i don’t. being terminated during a global pandemic at the age of then-61 with an injury to my hand doesn’t naturally lead to a new position, particularly in the arts. i’m 64 now and we can both agree that age discrimination is alive and well in our country.
she asked if i was composing, if i was “doing my music”.
i sat in the middle of the seesaw.
i’m asked this fairly frequently – people expect someone who has 15 albums already and who has also spent decades as a minister of music – to be fully immersed in music now. after. usually, i somehow deflect, saying something like ” you know, the pandemic…” my voice trailing off. then i quickly ask what they are up to, how their family is, the new grandchild, the retirement, the vacation, the joint replacement…
this time, though, with these dear people standing in our driveway on a beautiful day – post-hugs – tears sprang to my eyes and i began by saying, “eh, this might be too much information.”
and then i told them that i am not composing, that i am not “doing my music” and that i haven’t been able to. that it’s too been too much, that it was too hurtful, that – as much as my studio is a part of me, my essence – being fired devastated me in more ways than anyone can really imagine. it is not as simple as walking back into the studio, sitting at my piano, grabbing pencil and paper, placing hands on the keys. it wasn’t just any old job they took away. it was part of my soul. and – to be honest – i am having trouble recovering. still.
the fulcrum teetered and the seesaw arm – the resistance arm or the effort arm, i wonder – fell to the ground, jostling me. i apologized for the over-abundance of emotion.
they stared at me. they looked surprised; they looked sad. we were quiet for a minute, while i regained my composure and climbed back onto the fulcrum pivot.
but the words were out there. and they were the truth of it all.
reverse threading 