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Tag Archives: not-so-flawed wednesday


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two. together. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

sometimes – in the stats of this blog – i can see older posts someone has read but which i have forgotten. today one of those came up.

it is a blogpost from the very beginning of january 2024 called the place by the big trees. it is as relevant today – maybe even more so – than it was back a couple years ago:

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 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 – and you pick up only that which you wish to carry.”

we hadn’t been on our loop in the woods lately. we haven’t been on it since. but that day we took some much-needed time to go to that place, to hike and be silent, to talk it all through, to go sort, to ground.

these two black-eyed susans weren’t the only black-eyed susans in the brush trailside. but these two were separate, they were not in a stand of flowers. instead, they were standing – in all their glory – alone, faces to the sun.

and they made me think of us – me and d – standing – as we all do, as we all find ourselves – alone together – faces to the sun – in the middle of the middle of all the stuff.

and again, in the middle of the middle, maybe like you in the middle of some middle, we once again process, we make meaning, we swear and cry and drum up a bit more courage and we choose.

and we once again dispense of any lint that clings to what-would-be-safe, what would be mute – soundless, what would insulate us from looking at it all, recognizing the burden of it all, honoring the gravitas.

and we turn our faces to the sun – our choice the crossroad – feeling the air and the space and the raw.

together.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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make-do-ers. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

i always feel like i have to explain – to people new to our kitchen – that our kitchen is old (like our almost-centenarian house), that the range is at least sixty years old, that – yup – all told, we have some significantly old stuff.

we are make-do-ers. we’ve been make-do-ers all our lives and we will likely be make-do-ers the rest of our lives. it is a mindset. not a bad thing or a good thing, it just is. and neither of us can imagine a different way.

the heat and humidity and rain of the last months have made our basil go crazy. we have two plants and i have cut them back – which actually makes them grow more. we’ve made pesto and tabouli, pizza margherita and tomato soup with fresh basil – it is caprese heaven.

the other day – on one of the days of tornado warnings and severe thunderstorms and torrential rain – i went out and snipped off a whole buncha basil, placing it in water in ball jars and small vases – so that later in the day we could make basil cubes. how lovely to have a harvest so plentiful that we now have both basil cubes and pesto cubes in our freezer for the winter. pretty amazing.

so she was here only for a day – and as we showed her around our house, chatting about the basil cubes we made the night before – i got to see our home through someone else’s eyes.

and for a moment or two, i took in her truly delightful comments about what she saw. for her enthusiastic words about our old kitchen, her laughter about our chunks of concrete and repurposed “furniture”, her “awww’s” when we told stories about rocks or branches or tiny baby shoes or old suitcases – these were so welcome, particularly for two people whose cars have ages that add up to 100 years right now.

we make-do. we are kinda proud of it. some of our best stories are stories about how we made do. we are convinced we would have nothing to talk about if everything were just … you know … perfect.

the suntea is out on the deck steeping now and the mint for it is at hand; the basil is ready for another shearing. we used the tomatoes on some homemade pizza last night and have all the ingredients for jalapeño poppers – both of ann’s recipes. we are soon to make another batch of tabouli and are – rightly (right now) – staying away from (as they say in colloquial wisconsin) “boughten” lettuce and other dangerous parasite-dwelling produce. our range is ancient; we wash all our dishes. we take back roads and turn our shampoo and conditioner upside down for weeks before calling them done. we have a window a/c unit, there are clamps on the edges of our roofing (waiting for the roofing guys), and a zip-tie holds the rocker molding onto littlebabyscion.

but heck. we wouldn’t be interesting any other way.

*****

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

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a minute or two. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

the day became inky black. we spent a lot of time in the basement, tornado sirens blaring, the skies ominous.

we put backpacks with important stuff and a few clothes into the basement, because, well, you just don’t know. d carried dogga down the steps and we had flashlights and a lantern handy.

rain fell in buckets – torrential – unstoppable. we mopped up in the basement, laying out old towels to direct the flow of water into the floor drains.

we could hear it whipping around above us from the basement. the alert came for baseball-sized hail. we hoped they were wrong, maybe overestimating a bit. they alerted fierce winds and we hoped the trees out back would be steadfast.

and from social media online in the basement, we knew that other parts of our state were being devastated by these winds, by a callous tornado.

once we are down there, it takes a lot for me to want to come out of the basement. i am most definitely more afraid of storms now than i ever had been. but the storms are worse, they are more damaging, they are unrelenting. that is clear to me.

when – finally – the sky began to clear – the day had mostly gone by. and even though the sun tinged the clouds in pink lemonade – and it was beautiful – i know, that for people who suffered in the storm – this storm or any other kind of assaulting storm – it was not much solace.

the storm took its toll. everyone is exhausted.

there is so much more work to be done now.

but, for a minute or two, it is time to rest.

*****

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

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risking tatters. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

the heat index was 106 degrees. it had finally gotten a tad bit cooler and we were lounging – relatively motionless – in the gravity chairs mid-evening. watching the birds busy at the birdbath and the squirrel ecstatic at the barney-buffet, we suddenly were aware of two stunning dragonflies zipping around us and then landing on the piece-o’-our-beloved-tree branch on the deck next to us. just a couple feet away from us, they stuck around for a long time, gently flexing their wings and repositioning but not leaving. it’s like they wanted us to notice they were there.

it was shocking how close they allowed me to get to photograph them…so close that my iphone blurred some of the insect images – the depth of field of the camera instead opting to clear-focus on something further away.

dragonflies – are associated with messages of “transformation, joy and living life to the fullest…are often seen as gentle nudges to release worries and embrace the present moment.” it is also popular that they are “a gentle reminder that guardian angels or loved ones who have passed are watching over you…bringing…comfort…during transitional times.”

good grief, this is a good time – in countless ways – for a connection between heaven and earth.

i’ve been around big water most of my life. the ocean, long island sound, the gulf of mexico, lake michigan. dragonflies are drawn to bodies of water, so it would make sense that i would have had plenty of first-person experiences with dragonflies. clearly they have been around and i have admired their flight nearby. but i can’t point to a moment before when i was as viscerally aware – in a sharing of the same vibration-frequency way.

this time was different.

in a time that is fraught with so many uncertainties, i feel like any nod to reassurance or comfort is worth noticing. i feel like any “omen of power, bravery, transformation” is buoying. i feel like anything that might connect us to greater good is paramount.

the aerial (adult) stage of a dragonfly – the time this beautiful creature flies on these iridescent wings – is typically short — weeks to months long. most of its life is spent in its previous nymph stage, up to five years in the water. once airborne, their wings cannot repair, and high speed flight and other perils of tattered-wing damage blunt their ability to fly.

the dragonfly’s primary goal – their evolutionary goal – is “for the insect to disperse, find a mate and lay eggs near water“. their compound eyes – as many as thirty thousand of photoreceptor cells – take in everything around them and help them have a prey rate of 97%, one of the most successful predators currently on the planet. these fleeting creatures are stunningly impactful, successfully passing on life to their next generation.

we have limited time with the iridescent wings of our own lives. it would seem that we are – indeed – in our aerial phase…the phase of transformation and embracing the present moment. it would seem that our job – no longer nymphs – is to pass on a world that is worthy.

if we merely sit still – silent, timid, withdrawn, inactive, self-focused – it is possible our fragile wings will last a tad bit longer.

but if we fly – bold and brave, eyes wide-open, risking tatters – we will have simultaneously touched the sky – even heaven – and lived on earth.

*****

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

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

there is something about a train platform that makes you feel like an explorer. not necessarily like ferdinand magellan or lewis and clark or amelia earhart or jacques cousteau or edmund hillary and tenzing norgay or jane goodall or neil armstrong or sally ride, but maybe something more along the lines of maybe erma bombeck on errands or a fantastically prolific carole king in a new recording studio or an unabashed meg ryan on a new romcom set, slightly more tame, but nonetheless full of infinite possibility that might inspire your muse.

we have been on this particular platform many times – well, for people who live in wisconsin, anyway. it is often relatively empty when we wait on this side – the northbound side – later at night.

it is always after a really full day – rich in time with our son, eventful, fun, alive. we are usually pretty tired on this platform as we wait for our train, incoming from downtown. and we are usually talking about the day, reviewing all we have seen and heard and how really full the day was.

and there are always moments we realize that it feels like we have been away from home – like this one day – when we spent many hours traveling down, being in the city and then traveling back – it feels like way more than just the hours in one day.

exploring is supposed to be like that, i believe. you are supposed to feel like you have been away – away from everything that is usual. instead you have stepped away into time that is reserved for new experiences, for new people, for new ideas, for expanding what you knew into more. even if only to the metropolitan city that is just down the road from you, exploring opens you.

it’s one of the reasons we love watching youtubes of people doing thru-hikes, people climbing ridiculous mountains, people free-soloing and people snowboarding in the back country. it’s one of the reasons we love non-fiction and autobiographical/biographical narrative. it’s all different from our own lives and some of it is crazy stuff, but – vicariously – we can feel the energy of exploration and it feeds ours.

though right now we are minimally physically exploring ‘out-there’ – not traveling the way we would – we are reading, viewing, researching, adventuring as we can.

wide-open exploration is not something insurmountable – it is as minimal as reading an opinion that is opposite of yours, it is questioning what you know, it is trying something new, it is pushing one tiny self-imposed limit, it is going away even if you don’t go away, it is opening your mind to the imaginings of an empty train platform late at night.

*****

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

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thinking about you. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

purple has been her favorite color for as long as i can remember. so every single time i come upon a purple flower i think of her. this time – this downy wood mint – was no different.

i don’t always send a picture or a message that says i’m thinking about you but maybe i should.

because in these days i’m realizing that people really need that. people really need to hear that you are thinking about them, sending them good wishes, holding them close at that moment. because these are not normal times.

we are sticking closer to home, closer to our dogga. we don’t want to miss any moments with him, don’t want to not be there if he needs us. it’s not too much to ask from a beautiful being who has loved us unconditionally from the first. and so we hang out at home, out on the deck, on the patio.

sometimes we go to the store to resupply and sometimes we go for a hike. we ask 20 for help when we have to be gone a little longer, to stop in and keep an eye on dogga.

we won’t be going on vacation – away – this summer. it’s just not the right time for that. our priority needs to be this amazing pooch who has stood by us in every moment.

and so we tend our little garden – herbs and vegetables and flowers. we make suntea on the deck and move our adirondack chairs from sun to shade and back again. we are grateful for the littlest things – the house sparrows taking dirtbaths in the holes our dogga digs. the squirrels scampering across the wire and down the spruce to get a sip of water at the birdbath. the intermittent hummingbirds at the feeder, the cardinals on barney munching on birdseed, the baby raccoon trilling from the maples behind us. nothing extraordinarily exciting, but it all feeds our souls on this daisy path.

and – as we chat – planning or reminiscing – we pick up our phones every now and then and let someone know we are thinking of them. at that very moment. knowing how good – how reassured – it makes US feel, we try to do the same.

because these are not normal times.

*****

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

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

even in decline, the day lily is stunning. even as it prepares to fall – its veined petals listing toward the ground, stamen curled and ready to release.

even in decline, it is beautiful, the bloom looking more like the wings of a butterfly than the petals of a vibrant lily, heralding summer.

even in decline, it participates in the garden, granting space to those blossoms that are just starting, buds that are just bursting, tiny green treasure chests on the stem just begging for attention.

even in decline.

my sweet momma – and i have told this story – used to tell me that she was astonished when she looked in the mirror. she would grab her red lipstick, carefully lining her lips, applying it, and would look at me – in horror – saying, “i look like an old woman!”

it was impossible to convince her – even as i insisted – that she was absolutely beautiful – which she was – those creases and lines in her face worn in by life, the sparkle in her blue eyes that never faded, the worry lines earned by worrying about those she loved. even in decline – her beauty in the mirror and in the world – was palpable, was real, was undeniable.

but i am beginning to get it. such an emphasis placed on youth – and how that manifests in our minds and hearts – the way aging reveals in our bodies vs the way youth looks on our bodies – it’s an insanity to think that static is the only way to see beauty. so now, when i look in the mirror, i – like millions of other women – are maybe measuring what we see, maybe counting the wrinkles, maybe frowning at the dynamic changes through which our individual lives are expressing in our bodies, maybe bemoaning what we are taught to think of as flaws.

instead, i just want to remember.

i want to remember how entirely gorgeous the daylily in our little garden – in all of its stages. how much i welcome every last dewy bud, blossom, gossamer-wing-petaled bloom, the dropping petals. how much joy it brings, this simple cycle of life, evidenced along the fence, not-so-flawed.

it would seem that i should grant myself the same grace i grant the daylily.

it would seem that as each day unfurls into the next i am – indeed – learning that it is ever more beautiful than the last.

*****

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

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what a dance! [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

less than a week. the peony shared its dance with the world for less than a week. but oh, what a week it was.

i don’t imagine that it wondered – ahead of time – how long would be its time in the sun. i don’t imagine that it pondered the kind of notoriety it would have. i don’t imagine it was fretting, “bloom/don’t bloom/bloom/don’t bloom“. i don’t imagine it planned its choreography – the minuet or ballet, the jazz steps or interpretive improv – based on what it understood its stage and its time under the fresnel of light.

from a tight bud to wrinkly vestiges of peony petals, it danced for the sun, shied from the moon. it held on during the winds and collected bits of rain, courageously standing under the pressure to bow its fragile stem, its velvet-soft blossom.

the peony didn’t measure its relevance by its time here. it didn’t concern itself with striving or success, abundance of blooms or lushness of plant. it just bloomed as it bloomed.

and in the giving-over of trying to control any thing else, in the giving-over to follow its natural path, in the embrace of its exclaiming-life dance, it exploded in beauty.

what a week it was.

what a dance!

*****

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

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daisy-path-ing. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

we took off our sunhats. it was a hot day and we had been gardening for hours. the purchased plants had been potted, all the transplanting in the yard was done. it was that golden hour after all the work and before making dinner. we poured a bit of cool pinot grigio, took a tour around the yard and then settled into our adirondack chairs in the shady corner of our deck to gaze out at the yard – one of our favorite pastimes now.

the daisy path – as d has aptly named it – is slower. it doesn’t require the striding or racing around of earlier years. it is a – rather, The – sweet phase and we are trying our best to hone it. we never expect to perfect it, so we are doing everything we can to appreciate it, be grateful for it, honor it.

every night last week we sat on our patio or on our deck, just sitting. at the end of the day – after having dinner al fresco – we – truly – just sat.

and we talked. about anything, everything, nothing.

earlier in the day – on one of the days – i got ready to plant one last sweet potato vine. d had spray-painted a plastic pot and it was ready for the transplant and to be hung on the old ladder in the corner of the deck.

d asked me if he could get me a chair – as i have found that placing a chair on the patio next to the raised deck makes planting easier on my back. i thanked him and said that i was only planting this one pot.

but then i was struck by how generous this offer was. for in the middle of everything he was doing, he was concerned that it might be easier for me if i had a chair – as i had used while potting other days – and he was going to drop everything to go get me one if i wanted or needed it.

and so, it was then – one of those rare moments you remember – not because you don’t appreciate each other all the time, but because sometimes a very intentional wave of gratitude is easy for your brain to snapshot into your memory.

i walked over to where he was weeding the cracks in the patio and bent down. wrapping my arms around him, i told him how much his kindness meant to me. it wasn’t even a few seconds and dogga was there, right in the middle of our embrace, pushing his head up into the armwrap hug, his face even with ours, in the middle of so much love.

i whispered to d, “memorize it.”

of course.

we three stayed that way for at least a full minute, which is a long time for a busy aussie. it was a magical minute. definitely daisy-path stuff.

our old dogga stuck close for a bit more, to get kisses and pets and butt-butts. he didn’t see the tears welling up in our eyes as we committed it all to visual and visceral memory.

d went back to weeding and i potted the sweet potato vine and hung it on the ladder.

it seemed right that this sweet potato would keep vigil over our little corner on our deck. my sweet momma’s words, “live life, my sweet potato,” ring in my ears.

sweet potatoes and the daisy path. sunhats and glasses of wine, a checkered tablecloth and adirondack chairs. our dogga and a sanctuary of peace. love and gratitude.

the sweet phase, indeed.

*****

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

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wear your heart on your leaf. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

early in spring, the markings on jumpseed in the underbrush look like hearts. they capture my attention because, well, hearts.

as jumpseed matures, it is said that these markings either fade or disappear entirely. so, no more wearing its heart on its sleeve…so to speak.

before settling in to write today we watched three john denver videos – of his song for you, his song the wings that fly us home and his annie’s song. we leaned back against a stack of pillows, snugged under a quilt on what has been a rainy day so far, linked arms and listened.

i am married to a man who is not afraid of weeping. he is not afraid of the tears that come to his eyes as he sees or hears something beautiful. he is not afraid to feel or show how he is feeling. his heart is emblazoned on his outer leaves. and i hope that no amount of maturing will change that.

i am fortunate to be a mush married to a mush. it doesn’t take much to touch us, to really drive home something sentimental, to get lost in the wistful, to recognize goodness and wonder, to feel yearning for kindness in the world, to fight tears.

i feel – in these times – that we are walking with a perennial lump in our throats, a deep sadness that rises with each new report of corruption, of cruelty, of destruction, of extremism, of degrading of peoples, of the administration’s intentional divorcing of this country’s constitution. our own fear and disappointment – added to the utter chaos in this land and globally – make a kind of despondency close at hand. “unbearable,” a friend wrote about the news. yes. truly unbearable.

it helps in some ways to talk about it though we are finding fewer and fewer people who really want to talk about it. i’m not sure why that is. silence – or the lack of conversation – does not make it go away. centering only on other things can feel like looking through rose-colored glasses – a bit of pollyanna-ing. for me, the sharing of worries or frustrations or fears seems authentic and feels like a way to support each other through these times.

but not every plant wears its heart on its leaf.

though…in these times…wearing your heart on your sleeve – even just a bit – a heartbroken heart watching the decimation of our nation – may be the thing that can bind us together. and talking-it-out might gird us all with the fiery grit we need to push back, to reclaim goodness here and everywhere.

“…and the spirit fills the darkness of the heavens/it fills the endless yearning of the soul/it lives within a star too far to dream of/it lives within each part and is the whole/it’s the fire and the wings that fly us home.”

*****

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

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