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Tag Archives: notice


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cobalt and teal. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

it was the color that stopped us. we have walked this route for years. the other day – wind blowing off the lake, waves crashing over the rocks, rain falling intermittently – we noticed the color.

the east side of the trees was iridescent. cobalt blue and teal green mixed in with the rich color of its bark. we stood in front of the trees, studying the mix of color, the tooth, the randomness. later, it took some research to discover what might – just might – be the reason for these colors: amaurodon viridis – a fungus. if that is true, we don’t know what that means for these trees. both are stricken on the side that faces the lake – the side that takes the pummeling of the wind in lake-effect storms. we’d imagine that side of the tree is decidedly moister than the side facing the afternoon sun. but – at best – even with a bit of research – we are making it all up. we aren’t tree experts or even tree knowledgers. we are, however, tree lovers. and we are tree noticers.

it did make me think of october days we spent in breckenridge, colorado. days where the town took tree-safe paint and designed an art installation on the aspens. with biodegradable water soluble colorant, social and environmental artist konstantin dimopoulos inspired the painting of the trunks of aspens blue-blue-blue drawing attention to them – stunning yellow leaves in fall against this blue – impossible to not notice – an effort to point to the importance of trees to the planet and the devastation of global deforestation. it was breathtaking.

the work of an artist is to ask questions, to prompt thought, to nudge and cause both comfort and discomfort, perhaps to elicit change. the work of an artist is not to take the easy pre-cut path. the work of an artist is to linger in not-knowing, in seeking. the work of an artist is to notice, to pay attention, to educe the notice of others, to stir up paying attention. to encourage stillness and wild interaction, both.

the trees got us to stop. and as we stood and noticed and wondered, they stood tall, knowing they had done their job.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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orange sherbet and milkweed. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

the orange sherbet sky is a stunning backdrop to most anything but the milkweed’s wisp is anything but most-anything.

we pass by and notice. we pay attention. texture and color and movement from the gentlest breeze – it is a photograph before it was a photograph. my job was simply to snap it.

our days are slower. we linger in not-knowing. we acknowledge time as it sneaks by. and the next week comes before any of us are ready, before it seems possible. even the milkweed is surprised.

we are learning lesson after lesson. that this is life: the things our fingertips touch, the scent on the wind, the view before us, the call of the black-capped chickadee, the ground under our feet. we are caught up by the impermanence of it all. we are realizing the folly in the gathering of stuff. we immerse in the river where there is no stratum. we feel the moment, without knowing the edges of next.

the orange sherbet sky doesn’t dawdle. color has another place to be. and as the sun drops below the horizon, the shadow-gaps fill in.

we stand with the milkweed in dusk, close, loitering in early night and, with gratitude and rest, ready for next.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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thistle witness. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

and we are witnesses. to the thistle. to the meadow. to this slice of the earth.

we watch, as time passes. we note changes, dramatic and subtle. we are aware of the nuances of these moments – transitory. we are inside the ephemeral.

we are intentional; we fritter away.

and the thistle is witness to us as we stand still – for little bits of a while – in admiration. our gaze is focused, memorizing beauty, not questioning the randomness of our attention.

just holding it all in wonder. just perceiving the glorious. just unmoving and moved.

sharing this space of time – together – within the perpetuity of it all, what do the thistle, the meadow, this slice of earth see – looking back at us?

*****

TRANSIENCE from RIGHT NOW ©️ 2010 kerri sherwood

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

there was something about how these speckled leaves were nestled that got my attention.

and, in the way that everything makes me think of something else, it also brought to mind the nursery song five little speckled frogs:

“five green and speckled frogs
sitting on a speckled log
eating the most delicious bugs, yum, yum

one jumped into the pool
where it was nice and cool
now there are just four speckled frogs, glub, glub…”

but i digress.

maybe it was the symmetry of the trees. maybe it was the orange and green (which were the exact shades of my growing-up shag rug and the wall-to-wall carpet in our sunroom when we moved in.) maybe it was simply the happenstance of that particular branch of leaves, caught in the little crook made by two trees growing closely together, perhaps inosculated.

whatever the reason, i found it to be a thing of beauty. and those things are out there, everywhere, calling to us – to notice.

i didn’t disturb the leaves. just like i didn’t disturb the blue jay feather i passed on the trail. i left them there – like so many other times – so that others could see them as well.

on the contrary, there have been many snakes on the trail in these last hikes. garter snakes and brown snakes of all sizes – even the tiniest snake i’ve ever seen – sunning on these gorgeous autumn days. but the problem in that is that there are bikers who are populating this trail as well and there have been numerous times we have come across a snake that is deceased or struggling, having been run over by a biker who did not see it.

so, each and every time we see a snake – in the middle of the trail – we stop. we either prompt it to move, escorting it to the side of the trail to which it was headed or, in the case of the struggling or fatally wounded, we pick them up and place them gently in the grass, issuing a tiny blessing and saying, “you are not alone.” we know some of them are in their last moments and, in the way that this universe is all connected, we hope that our holding them for a moment helps them in crossing over.

we immerse in what the trail offers – everything – from helping the tiniest fuzzy caterpillar to taking in a sunset of grandeur. we are grateful for the deep breath it consistently brings to us. we get centered in the step-by-step repetition.

i suppose these are the reasons we find ourselves pondering – imagining – a giant thru-hike in the someday. the opportunity to hold such beauty and be held by such beauty – all around us – is enticing and, surely, delicious.

just like bugs to speckled frogs.

*****

YOU HOLD ME from THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY ©️ 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood

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

we are clearly the three musketeers together…20, d and me.

our discussions range from ridiculous kidding to profound artistic center to current events. we cook together and spoil dogdog together. he has been a constant – for thirty years – and our friendship is cherished. he is my brother; after my own big brother was on the other side, he chose 20 to be so.

he has a thing about faces. and so, because he sees them everywhere, so do we. happy faces, silly faces, sad faces, worried faces, upside down faces. i have stopped in my tracks to snap a photo of a face – regardless of the place – just to send to him.

and then, at the coffeehouse in madison, there was this face on the door. 😐 d was engrossed in something else, but 20 and i went off into fits of laughter – talking as if we were the face on the door. it doesn’t take much to entertain us.

it’s a good learning.

because – really – isn’t that the point? to see the tiniest thing with someone you care about and laugh the biggest guffawing-snorting-tears-running laugh. to admire the tiniest thing with someone you care about and be awestruck with the biggest swelling heart. to share the tiniest things – and the biggest things – with someone you care about and know – deep in your soul – they are standing there with you, every fiber.

i’ll always stop for faces now.

well, faces and hearts.

because they’re important. 🙂

*****

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

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stripe and dot. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

and nature bent way down, furrowing her brow at her canvas. and then, after careful consideration, she took her paint pens to the swallowtail caterpillar and drew stripes – the lightest green, almost opalescent. thinking that wasn’t enough, she took out her most vibrant sunshine-yellow pen and polka-dotted in-between the stripes. she sat back and looked at her work, smiling. “yes,” she thought, “yes, this is right for the swallowtail.” she moved on to the other caterpillars waiting to get their colors.

it never ceases to amaze me what is quietly starring just in our backyard alone. when i opened the little gate to our potting stand, they took me by surprise. they stand out.

since i am a big fan of painting polka dots on rocks, i was instantly fond of the two caterpillars eating their way through the wild vegetation growing between the big flat rock-slabs on the ground. they made me think of children’s books and writing stories of two caterpillars out adventuring for the day, their obvious names “stripe” and “dot”.

i was careful not to disturb them as i tended the parsley and basil, snipping back the spindly ends. they stayed right there, not at all thrown off by my presence. i closed the gate and checked on them later. they had made little headway, maybe an inch or so. but caterpillars, so i surmise, are not in a hurry.

we think we are so brilliant, we humans. we study and research pantone matching systems and cmyk process charts. we bring home paint and fabric swatches. we mix paints on palettes thick with color.

and nature giggles – glancing at her caterpillars and butterflies, flowers and trees, canyons and mountains, sky and prairies, oceans and fishes, birds and rainbows and sunrises – knowing she will always have the upper hand. it comes naturally to her.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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

in the way that dads are corny, my sweet poppo was just that – a little bit corny. somehow, it seems it’s supposed to be that way. his humor was lighthearted and the way he repeated some jokes was comforting. “do you think the rain will hurt the rhubarb?” he’d quip. waiting just a few seconds, he’d respond to himself – if you didn’t beat him to it – “not if it’s in cans!!” and then he’d laugh. every time.

i think he was buying time to think when he’d quip about the rhubarb. it wasn’t like he was intently concerned about the rhubarb. matter of fact, i only remember them growing rhubarb maybe one or two years, back behind the house. and even then, it wasn’t like he was a huge rhubarb fan. i think the only way he liked it was with strawberries – in a pie.

but his jokes were harmless and predictably silly. no stand-up routine for him, he was just daddy-o, trying his best to carry on. and because he wasn’t a giant conversationalist – he turned that over to my sweet momma – he’d just fill in the gaps. “well, how do you like them apples?” he’d say.

i’m pretty sure he’d had loved the corn we grew in our backyard this summer. the squirrels and chippies had everything to do with this crop. they’d deplete the birdfeeder in mere hours, tossing kernels and seeds everywhere. i have no doubt where the cornfield came from. but it was pretty astounding to see. we suddenly became prolific mini-farmers.

it was everywhere. next to breck, our aspen. inbetween the ornamental grasses. under the birdfeeder. under the potting bench with our herbs. next to the garage. yesterday we found it in the front garden bed.

i could hear david’s dad columbus chuckle from the other side when we found it in the front garden. a cornfield-lover from way back, i figure he might have had something to do with that. we laughed as well, delighted in a – hmmm – corny kind of way.

for the longest time we left it all right where it was. there was something really pleasing about glancing out at the corn.

but then we decided it was time to pull it out, so that it wouldn’t suffocate our intentional plantings. we took pictures and then pulled it, thanking it for the entertainment it had provided.

outside on the driveway we talked to our westneighbors. we talked about our hummingbirds and our feeders and the birdbaths we had placed in our yards and the chippies and squirrels stealing seed and the birds gathering in the bushes. we were all zealous, loving the little creatures in our yards. “we’ve turned into our parents,” i noted and we all nodded and laughed.

“well, how do you like them apples?” i thought.

*****

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

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our hope frog. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

and then, there it was. in our pond. the first frog in a couple years.

it was helen, who is steeped in her gift of faith, who told us the significance of having a frog appear. “f-r-o-g,” she said, “fully-rely-on-God.”

it is astounding how very much the appearance of this frog means to us. in the middle of the middle, a nod (or hop) of reassurance is unbelievably gratifying.

not every frog likes a photo shoot, but “hope” participated nonetheless. she was shier than most of our other frogs, but maybe that’s because she’s just getting to know us. one of our frogs – 2020 maybe? named “pando” – actually let me pet it, stroke its head and speak to it up close.

regardless, we’re a tad bit worried because it is so late in the year. she arrived on the equinox and the fall weather will race past the starting gate, sprinting to winter.

we hope that hope will survive the seasons.

in every way.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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the blue jays. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

my sweet poppo died three years before my sweet momma. when she died, the tilt that my world had already felt dove down into a deeper angle, the axis of the earth struggling to keep it in balance. the loss of both parents is profound, no matter your age.

it had been years since i had heard or seen a blue jay. they were common where i grew up, the screeches of jays in the woods or the trees surrounding our home. they have husky voices, always a little bit raspy. but they make me think of home.

i still remember the first day i saw one – after. it’s a few years ago now.

we were hiking on one of our favorite trails and suddenly i could hear them. they flew across the path and i stood still, reveling in the moment, taking it in. since that day, there have been more sightings and i have heard their birdcalls, even out our bedroom window from time to time.

since they are a common bird in wisconsin, i wonder how it is i missed them.

and i realize that sometimes the way home – the sound of a blue jay – is something we just don’t pay attention to, something that falls down on the list of priorities. until one day.

the day comes that all the really important stuff comes into focus. and we realize that we have – maybe – taken for granted the stuff that really is a part of who we are. we slough off paying attention to those things, those places, those people because we believe that there is plenty of time – later. or perhaps there are reasons we cannot grant grace to those things, those places, those people and we somewhat haughtily, in some selfish kind of righteous amnesia of our own actions, put them to the side, the corners of our hearts. or maybe we are just too busy and we have gotten lost, overwhelmed in our very real and partly contrived busy-ness.

any way you look at it, i am surprised i didn’t see the blue jays. until after.

now i hear them, see them, find their feathers in the usualness of our days. each time it is like a tiny nod to home, to all the moments of goodness, to the realness of unconditional love in the midst of the ridiculous hardness of life.

and they were there all along.

*****

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

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glimmer energy. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

it was like magic dust.

we were sitting on our infamous adirondack chairs on the patio. the sky was brilliant blue – much like in this photograph. so much was going on. we were taking a few-minutes-breather.

and suddenly, it was like tiny sparkles were landing on us – the tiniest raindrops we’d ever seen. one by one we’d sense them landing on bare arms. you could barely see them, barely feel them. but as they floated down they glittered like the eensiest dew drops in a sunrise ray, iridescent shimmers falling from the sky. it is hard to wrap words around this. but it was like being blessed by the universe, like minute stars touching us. grace. light. magic dust.

it’s not like we aren’t surrounded by these. glimmers. moments that radiate. moments that make you feel amazed to be alive. moments of joy or peace. they are – truly – everywhere. gentle touches of reassurance or comfort, reminders of bliss – out there. not magnificently large summits but micro moments in real living, real time, lingering in the air waiting for us to notice.

and when you notice…as a deliberate practice or an unanticipated surprise…the energy of your stardust quivers in goodness.

*****

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

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

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