reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: out of fallow


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

in what feels like a moment of gardener glory, i suddenly noticed that the peonies are rising. because they are sooo utterly gorgeous, it always feels like great success when they return, when nothing i have done or not done has dissuaded them from coming back. these reddish-maroonish sprouts – full of promise – are growing and, one day down the road, on a warm late spring or early summer day full of sunshine, we will have stunning peonies again. beauty is on its way.

i stumbled onto a social media post with photographs of a variety of women who are now part of the current administration or somehow peripheral to it in a meaningful way. there were before and after pictures. photo shoots of women who had looked, well, like normal women living life, with faces that had faced whatever challenges or successes had come their way to date.

you know, like ours….faces that have grown up with macaroni and cheese, with petticoat junction and gilligan, with phones connected to the wall, with studying into the wee hours of the night and term papers on typewriters, with apartments or houses to decorate and upkeep, with childbirth or the hurdles of adoption, with middle of the night feedings and fevers and teenagers breaking curfews, with illness and recuperation, with job discrimination and grievances, with the loss of our parent or parents, with our bodies ever-changing. faces that have reflected back the tens of thousands of suns we have seen, the tens of thousands of moons we have stared at – wide-awake, the hundreds of thousands of stars we have wished on. faces that have aged through time, every laugh line, every wrinkle, every worry line earned.

the photo essay i saw depicted women who then changed their faces. they erased the laugh lines, the wrinkles, the worry lines, the jowls. they puffed up and exaggerated some version of youth that, in the end, escapes them. they no longer look real. they look plastic, even like the scary dolls you see in antique shoppes. and maybe that’s their point. that feels sad, but seems accurately reflective of the ideology they are choosing to embrace. which makes it even more sad.

because every day we live – we women AND we men – we are gardener glory of the universe. every day we live – we women AND we men – are great successes of endurance, of keeping on, of facing what comes.

and because every day we live – we women AND we men – are beauty on its way.

just as we are.

*****

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

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the cheering squill. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

this charming little flower started popping up all over the top part of our yard – between the old brick wall and the garden by the house. striped squill require no special skills, no plant food, no specific watering instructions. it just appears. and it thrives. and every single one of these tiny striped blooms makes me smile. they are incredibly low-maintenance in a high-maintenance world. it’s hard to think of something sweeter to broadcast that spring-in-the-midwest is actually on its way.

because there is wild geranium under barney – the old upright in the backyard – and there are day lilies growing feverishly in every bit of garden and there are the tiniest curlicues of ferns along the back fence over in the corner by the garage and there are sedum’s wee cabbages obstinately ignoring any deep temperature drops – we have to believe that we here in wisconsin are on the docket for spring’s arrival.

years ago i planted hundreds of tulip and daffodil bulbs with the great hope that, well, tulips and daffodils would grow in our yard. but – the squirrels dug them all up and ate ’em all. que sera. it wasn’t to be.

i am not horticulturally derailed by that. i enjoy the bulb flowers in other gardeners’ gardens and appreciate what actually grows easily in ours. striped squill – its delicate flowers – are our gig, it seems. no credit to us.

and i have to say that i really love it that way.

because these tiny flowers – even in what seems their inconsequence – are most meaningful. their presence in our grass signals the hope of fallow-coming-to-an-end. it signals the freshness of a new season, a new time. it signals rejuvenation of a place on earth that has rested for some time – in this case, right here, through winter.

i can’t help but linking-thinking it to the hope of fallow-coming-to-an-end and the freshness of a new season, a new time and rejuvenation….of me, of us, of each of us.

somewhere deep in our own fallow – our own dormancy – we start to thrash our arms at the darker shadows and invite in the light. somewhere deep in our own fallow – our own dormancy – we begin to cultivate the chance of growth, of healing, of rising up through the debris of whatever had been plowed over. from somewhere deep in our own fallow – our own dormancy – we emerge stronger, more vital, chutzpah leading the way.

the little squill stand firm in the wind and the rain, their skinny little stems steadfast. they keep reaching for the sun, grinning. they know they matter. they have no doubt. they are the harbingers of renewal. and they cheer each of us on our way with them.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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a start. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

when i was growing up, the time approaching my birthday was certain to be weather schizophrenic. but by the time my birthday arrived – the end of march – i was often pictured outside in a sweater, standing by the yellow forsythia bush in our front yard. on long island spring had arrived to stay.

here it is another story.

we just passed through fierce winds, sleet, a pummeling blizzard. as i write this it is supposed to be 70 degrees by late this afternoon. my birthday? a forecast of 38 with much colder windchills. now, were i in the high mountains of colorado, it would be about 72 degrees on that day. ahhh. but there’s no such thing as climate change, eh?

the old brick wall out front seems to hold the accumulating warmth of the afternoon sun. a couple days ago i went out there with my camera and was surprised to see tiny shoots of daylilies cozying up together in the leaves of fall we left there for insulation. even the little cabbages – sedum – in the front garden are appearing, tightly-wound and tucked into the dried stalks that remain. crazy.

however crazy, though, it made me insanely happy to see these tiny greens. the rising hope that growing things elicit…

it appears that we have made it through most of the winter. though i am certain not to be all cavalier about it – it can easily make several more appearances in snowstorms or ice or windchill – i can feel my spirit lighten – even the tiniest bit – thinking of spring.

we had to change the timers on all the lamps in the house that were on autopilot. we had to change the outdoor happy lights. every few days, i scoot the “on” time back a little later. each day as dogga wakes us early-early it is a little bit lighter as we sip coffee, watching out the east windows.

we now have two adirondack chairs that sit stacked on the deck. we’ve sat in them a few times now – on the patio, in the sun.

this is a time of renewal, nothing short of a bit of miraculous.

and we know – even with the green shoots and the sun and the light – that it may not be an easy spring. we have much to face – those of us in this country. and we each have our own stuff as well. so much dank darkness to push back, so much truth to let into the air, so much light to shine, so much fortitude needed to get there from here.

but the daylilies are growing.

and that’s a start.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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fervent fern. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

they unfurled from their tiny seahorse stage into real-live ferns in what seemed like moments. all of a sudden, there they were – a whole corner garden of ferns. so incredibly green. lush.

but – even in their zealous and prolific growth – they are fragile. their fronds fall victim to the wind or the dogga’s curiosity, and they are knocked over, with – seemingly – no chance of revival. it seems – perhaps – safer to be in the middle of the bunch of ferns in the garden, rather than on the outskirts.

and i find myself nodding my head, as any artist might nod her head. yes. indeed. safer to be in the middle than on the outskirts, than life as an outlier.

when i finally felt safe enough – when the imperative was too much to ignore any longer – for me to pursue my own artistry – to leave the middle – i knew it was a different route. it would not be the interstate to success. instead, it would be a challenge to stay upright – to keep reaching – when the perils of the outskirts were plentiful.

i knew i should have kept on the road earlier, but there were things that precluded me – that hushed me – and i largely put aside that desperate voice inside of me begging to come back out – the one i had quashed so many years – decades – prior.

but the tiny seahorse fern in me didn’t give up. it kept nagging me until it was finally ok to face the perils.

and i began to write – with the fervency of the ferns in our back garden. my piano was never silent. i kept unfurling, reaching to the sun – an artist coming out of fallow.

and there was music. and more music. the compositions, the songs, the albums populated the garden rapidly – there was much time for which to make up. stages and boom mics and product boxes were the accoutrements of my life. and i could only imagine – and still wonder – what might have happened had it all started earlier, had i fronded in earlier life.

it remains a mystery.

even now – in which the unsuspected and life have mown down some of the outer fronds – there is a core, a center of gravity that holds the fern-muse.

though fragile on the exterior, we are never really broken to the core. there is still time – there is healing, there is a new spring.

there is a fern garden ripe for more ferns.

*****

WATERSHED © 2004 kerri sherwood

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read DAVID’s thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

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squeaking. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

“squeaking with joy, ” cousin kate wrote – all in caps – “the turtles are back!”.

at the exact time she sent that, we were on our trail, on the bridge over the river, gazing down at the turtles. we had seen a couple earlier in the spring, but then it got cold and they disappeared. now, they are back – seemingly for good – and we, too, are squeaking with joy.

earlier in the winter, i had written:

“i think about the turtles. they are there in the warmer months, sunning on logs and rocks that jut out of the river. but, when it dips below fifty degrees or so – and stays there – they disappear. apparently, they dive down to the muddy bottom, their metabolism slows down, they require less oxygen. their mucky homes keep them safe as they bide time, these wise, long-lived creatures of the water and the land.

we know they are there – somewhere – in hidden spots, places they feel sheltered and secure. i think about what they might be doing. they are silent and the fallow is long. i trust they are sorting what is next, kind of like us.

time keeps moving, though, and i keep hope that when it warms up and the turtles have a more secure sense of themselves in the world they will reappear, out of the suspension of presence. i’m hoping for an early spring.

and waiting. and the river freezes. and then it thaws.“

and then i had this idea walking down the hall the other day. it was a the-turtles-are-back idea.

in my mind i named it “out of fallow” or “out of the mud” or even “the relevant challenge” or “on the fly” but the name is fluid. the idea floated around and landed tiny feet on my brain, so i eventually told david about it.

it’s relatively simple. we choose ten destinations – in wisconsin, in the midwest, on the northeast coast, in the high mountains, on quiet southern beaches, in the canyonlands, in the grand national parks – all different projects. taking a yamaha portable battery-operated keyboard (with recording/disc drive capability), ten canvases and paint, both laptops, and a couple spiral notebooks – we go to each destination for a pre-determined amount of time (say, three hours). while there, i compose on the fly – what that place feels like – and he paints on the fly – what that place feels like. on the fly – spontaneous creation – is not for the meek at heart. it requires focus, has a terminal product necessary at the end – a short time after beginning – and necessitates a degree of letting go. it pushes us back into the active-art-place and pushes us past edges. it gets us out of the muddy bottom. it produces the raw pieces of an album to be orchestrated and a collection of paintings to be framed. it needs some support to get off the ground. it has me pondering, swimming to the surface with the turtles.

our snouts will pop out of the river and we’ll look around some, trying to figure it out. we would definitely need some encouragement, some warm sun, some help.

and, if we move forward, out of the suspension, we – turtles, too – will definitely be squeaking.

*****

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

turtles love coffee.