reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: nature


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ahead, ahead. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

when we sit on the deck – which we so often do – we look out onto our backyard. it is serene most of the time, a sanctuary for us – like a cozy private courtyard.

breck is growing by leaps and bounds. once again, we are surprised by this aspen tree’s response to spring. it is the happiest little aspen, filling out and getting taller. it practices quaking every day in the breezes that come off the lake or come in from the south or west. but sometimes, there are winds that are coming out of the plains states with much more power. and this young resilient aspen bends in its path. it worries us as we watch, wondering if we need to somehow stake this sapling, to help support it. we will likely go ask the good people at schwartz nursery – because they know. in the meanwhile, breck bends to the east when the gales come. we sit on the deck and, from that vantage, see it point to the right, nodding its trunk – “ahead, ahead,” it seems to say.

the almost-monochromatic of this photo appeals to me. there is more than meets the eye – these tones, movement in the background. i stopped to take a picture off-trail. i found the small green meadow strikingly beautiful. and there it was again – the response to the wind – bending, listing. “ahead, ahead.”

the messages come whether or not we notice them. they are all around us, tiny universe sticky-notes that flutter and attempt to attract our attention. we can ignore them if we wish. we can be too busy, too distracted, too engrossed, too stubborn, too riddled with our own schtuff.

or we can look at all the ways we are offered wisdoms. we can listen carefully as the sun rises or sets. we can see the greens in the green, the movement in the steady. we can rustle around in the world – aware of the air we breathe, the sun on the top of our heads, the cottonwood as it passes on the draft.

we can nod our heads in response to the wind – whatever the wind is for us – and whisper, “yes. ahead, ahead.”

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

DETERMINED mixed media 18″x36″

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peonies in the sky. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

i have sixty-three recent photos of our peonies. to say i love them would be an understatement. they have endeared themselves to me and i’m craaazy about them.

the other photos are more “normal” – they are taken at eye level with the peony or a photo of their generous flower – they are moments capturing raindrops on fragile hot pink petals. they are pictures of tightly-wound buds and sunlight escaping from an early blossom. they are peonies in full regalia.

because i have so many photographs of them it seems obvious to look for a new perspective. “the real voyage of discovery consists, not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” (marcel proust)

so i knelt down and put my iphone on selfie mode, held the camera under the peony flowers and clicked peonies in the sky. because our world tends to be a from-the-top-down, house-stage world, it seems prudent to look from the bottom-up sometimes. it changes things.

the juxtaposition of color is intense. it takes away the denseness – and the greenness – of the whole plant. it focuses on the individual flowers, on their stems.

i’m not really fond of this photo shoot so much. i prefer the other 57 i took up-close-and-personal with my precious peonies. but it’s a good reminder to step back and look at peonies from many aspects. they will look a tad bit different depending on the surroundings, depending on the background. they will blend in and they will stand out. they will be one-of-many and they will be the star-of-the-show. each peony may be appreciated in different ways, in different contexts, for different reasons. with new eyes.

not unlike people.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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grinning. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

we waited until the really torrential rain stopped before we drove on to aspen. the forested slopes, sagebrush-dotted mountains and an amazing canyon are just too much to miss in driving rain. the marmot, the bighorn sheep and the mountain goats were all out on our way there – the reward of patience and not rushing. they grinned as we went by, slowing to gaze at them, all pretty close to the shoulder of the road.

we were gifted with a herd of elk lounging in a meadow on our way back from the ditch trail. it’s not to be underestimated – the size of an elk. they grinned at us from the field and told us that the real hulksters – the moose – wouldn’t be making an appearance that day.

and then, back a couple hours on the other side of the canyon, right in the middle of breck, this tiny family of foxes. momma fox watching over her kits, the incredibly adorable curious little babies romped around the old building, scurrying from one plaything to another, scooting under the foundation. none of them seemed fearful and we were grateful that people weren’t chasing after them like the nincompoops in national parks seem to be doing these days. they were grinning at their audience, just happy-go-lucky-living life and momma fox was watching over her brood carefully. we were enchanted.

we saw them a few times while we were there. each time we laid back, quietly watching, enthralled at their courage and delighted at their zeal.

this is always a hard place to leave – these mountains. we try to make the most of the gloriousness while we are there. every breath here counts.

and i wonder if someone is watching from some other planet or galaxy or dimension. they can see us – david and me – romping and scurrying, playing and scooting – just like the baby fox. they might think we were just happy-go-lucky-living life. they might be enchanted.

and we’d be grinning in response.

*****

EVERY BREATH from AS IT IS ©️ 2004 kerri sherwood

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a tulip in the yard. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

we don’t officially compost. but the side of the garage (it used to be the back, but there is a fence there now) is a place of great organic matter. decaying leaves, wilted lettuce and spinach, bits of broccoli or parsley for the possum, shriveling blueberries for the chipmunks.

i walked past and it caught my attention.

a volunteer tulip.

years ago i planted a couple hundred tulip and daffodil bulbs. the squirrels – who are intrepid at our house – dug them all up. every last one of them. i had zero tulips, zero daffodils. i haven’t tried again because the squirrels would giggle and smirk, just waiting for me to bring my tired joints back into the house after planting. then they would make short order of digging or, in a slight (tormenting) nod to letting me think i might actually have bulbed flowers one day, planning to unearth them at a later date.

needless to say, we don’t have tulips or daffodils in our yard.

but here was this beautiful tulip! in all its glory, growing out of the mound next to the garage.

i’m thinking some squirrel – with eyes bigger than its belly – had one too many bulbs. it laid it down or dropped it. maybe it was on purpose. maybe it is a thank-you for all the birdseed it had been scrounging out of our birdfeeder. maybe a thank-you for all the goodies at the side of the garage through the years. maybe gratitude for the squirrel highways above our house or a gesture for the acorn holes scattered throughout our grass. or maybe it just simply forgot about it. either way, we will work around this beauty.

happy that it’s there, i’m a little bit gleeful that i finally – at long last – have a tulip in the yard.

*****

DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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to be here. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

there are days like this. when you can barely see the lake. were you not standing on its shore, watching its waves pummel the rocks below, you would not know. you would look out at the horizon and you would see nothing. the fog encases it all. even the line of sky and water. the fog here rolls in as the wind shifts and, for the closest mile in, all is awash in it.

i like to go to the lakefront on those days. it is beautiful. everything is in soft focus. and it seems somehow fitting to gaze out and not be able to discern much at all. there are days when it is important to be in the fog – to be wrapped in it – in order to remember to live the day – really, really live it.

we think ourselves able to plan, plan, plan. we believe our lists are important, get wrapped up in prioritizing what’s on them.

and the fog reminds us: things are not as clear as all that. they fall away into the mist as we stand, squinting our eyes to see. and then, the breath we see in front of our faces, the waves crashing near us as we stand on the boulders – they drop us into now.

i believe it would serve me well to remember the fog on clear days. to remember to hold it all lightly, in soft focus, to be where i am, to make the most of all of it, to not underestimate my fragility here. life is unfolding – both with and without my insistence on how, both with and without any clarity i might have, both with and without me.

until the sun burns through the fog to find the horizon, i am – once again – sitting in the interim of the fog, amazed at what i cannot see. not-knowing taps me on the shoulder. and reassures me that i have right-now.

and i am grateful to be here.

*****

happy birthday, my beloved daughter. 💗

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

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in the same way. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

in the same way this peony bud waits – tightly budded – absorbing the sunshine and the rain, glomming onto every gift nature offers her – i write this ahead, in great anticipation of being in the mountains.

i am a peony bud – wrapped up and waiting to unwind. ready to stand in the sun, soak it in, my breathing a little off as i adjust to altitude, weeping at the first sight of the range in front of us.

and in the same way this peony will soon glimmer in blossoming, i can feel it in anticipation. i can feel standing on a crest or tucked into the aspen forest along the trail or sitting in the brook on a rock. i can feel the petals relax, unwind. i can feel the air brush past me. i can feel my heart beating.

“i am here now,” i will remind myself, “stay here in each moment. don’t go anywhere else but here right now.”

and all that will come – all that will happen – whether ants or good weather or bad – i am nevertheless a bud that will open, unfurling petal by petal. nature and time will have its way. no matter. unconditionally. like goodness and love.

and i will stand today in the mountains – grateful – for peony lessons, for patience and fortitude, for all things unconditional.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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on different ground. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

“it is impossible to ever compare two people because each stands on such different ground.” (john o’donohue)

breck has leafed. we are watching with admiration and anticipation. last year, our tiny aspen shot up in height, growing, growing, higher, higher, until it was awkwardly tall with all branches on the lower trunk and this spindly beanstalk heading skyward, full of oddly-sized leaves.

we wonder about this year. but we hesitate to compare it to other aspens – the ones in woods that grow in stands and connect-connect underground to vast quantities of aspen-relatives.

our breck is alone out there. the only aspen in our yard, though we won’t know for some time if there are others sprouting up in the aspen regeneration way, sharing a root structure, genetically identical trees waiting to surprise us with a grove. breck stands on different ground – on midwest soil not the soil of the high mountains. its experience is different from the forested side of the mountain on the ditch trail in colorado or lakeside in dory.

though i have successes and joys in my life, i recognize that you do as well. though i have difficulties in my life, i recognize that you do as well. though i have challenges and disappointments, i recognize that you do as well. i stand on different ground. you stand on different ground.

we have watched breck struggle and we have watched it flourish. we cheer it on, always aware that it is out of its mountain-element, always aware it is one-of-a-kind here, always aware it is steadfastly soaking up the sun and the rain and holding on during wisconsin winters and winds from the west.

no matter the size of its leaves or the distribution of branches, the height it achieves or the root system clones it produces, breck stands on different ground and it is beautiful.

“if you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.” (desiderata – max ehrmann)

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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we are all tiny ferns. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

looking like a new year’s eve party noisemaker waiting to unfurl in celebration, the fern steadily grows. in-between last year’s clipped stalks and in and among dried leaves and the last vestiges of winter’s effect on mulch, it peeks out, pushing up toward the sun. it chooses to thrive, even covered by sandy soil and bits of the past. one day soon i will walk out to the back – where the fern garden is – and this tiny fern will have stretched and straightened and fanned out into a lanky beautiful feather.

it makes me think about blowout noisemakers. all furled up they look relatively innocuous and not particularly capable of being noisy. a little gumption and air blown into them and they can be pretty doggone loud.

the little fern breathes deep and reaches down into where gumption is stored. against the odds, this seemingly fragile, willowy plant rises up, centimeter by centimeter. suddenly it is a powerhouse, standing tall in the rain and a part of the wind in storms.

though it may be all trembly inside as it makes its journey upward and outward, its gumption, air and the sun give it courage and strength. it is tough and resilient and – it is said – has an incredibly strong survival instinct.

how often we are all tiny ferns – over and over – through fallow and rejuvenation, covered in the patina of the past and growing it off. innocuous and silent.

and then, we rise up and unfurl.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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tough socks. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

i just heard about darn tough hiking socks. they are known for their comfort, durability and fit. they wick moisture and are anti-blister. these are all important features in a hiking sock. heck, they are important features in living life.

the river rises and falls. we have seen it spilling way across the trail, with trees looking like they are standing in a bayou, water so stretched out it looks less like a river than a lake. we have seen it pulled way back, the level low, the riverbed exposed, turtles with no place to hide. it surprises us to arrive and see it so different from the last time. and it doesn’t surprise us.

everything is in flux. everything. and i suppose i am surprised and i am not surprised.

it all rises and falls. it spills over and recedes. life gives and takes. successes are jubilant, disappointments are despairing. relationships flourish and barely hold on…connection replaced by disconnect replaced by connection. well-being is momentary. we are secure, we are imperiled. we are flush with excitement and trembling with dread. such a dichotomy, this living thing.

it reminds me – once again – of an interview i heard with an elderly woman of 95. she was asked how she managed to stay vital and engaged for so long, to stay robustly healthy and remarkably positive. she just gracefully rode the ebbs and flows, surfing the river-bayou-trickle and its continual changes. she answered, “i take nothing personally.”

they must have modeled the socks after her. comfort, durability, fit, moisture-wicking and anti-blister.

i need me some of those socks.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

IN PRAYER mixed media 67″x64″

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all of it. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

it never fails to amaze me. even the familiar turn in the trail. even the familiar trees. even the angle of the sun which has shone on us so many, many times here. even the sky, this midwest sky, sometimes ornery, sometimes brilliant. still. still, i love this curve of path. still, i love these tall pines. still, i love the tease of sun through the highest branches of needles. still, all of it.

in a world that presents unexpecteds every day – some of which are more difficult than others of which are tiny or enormous gifts – there is this. there is the still-all-of-it.

and so we go here. and we process life here. we are silent and we talk-talk-talk. this woods has kept us company through it all. this path has led us when our feet didn’t know where to go. these trees have wrapped us in scent and held us in strength, towering over us. this sky has graced us with all weather.

and we have always arrived back at the trailhead, safe. we have been freezing and sweltering. we have been covered with snow and sopping wet. we have been exhilarated and bone-achy tired. but we have always been safe.

so it shouldn’t really surprise me. this place is a haven, a sanctuary, shelter for our hearts and minds. i imagine one day – if we might live elsewhere and no longer hike in this place – we will look back, remembering and reminiscing. and we will nod our heads and agree – yes…it was all of it, all of that place. every single time.

*****

GOOD MOMENTS from THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY ©️ 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood

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