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Tag Archives: perspective


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

there was little light. without power we had tealights and candles scattered about the house. a small ikea lantern my poppo gave me years ago lit the way to the bathroom. and i put fresh batteries in a few small flashlights. both of us – and our dogga – have had plenty of time in our old house that we can find our way around in the dark, so bright light wasn’t an imperative. heat – yes. bright light – not so much.

the far-reaching effects of the lack of power are striking. we were at a standstill in some dramatic ways. no power. no heat. no stove or oven. no internet. no home phone. no cable. no inside phone charging. a lot of waiting and not a lot of doing. pacing.

we sat at our little bistro table – with this candle – and talked. we spoke about people overcome by the ravages of war, people in crumbled cities destroyed by hatred, people trying to live in rubble in the dark, in the cold, in sickness, in hunger. we were silent as we both became overwhelmed. quite certain that we had more in this cut glass candle, we were downright appreciative for the promise of our power being restored at some point, even if that timeline didn’t fit our preferred plan.

we watched the shadows play off the wall and dance on the ceiling. i took photographs. we put a frozen baguette on the grill to thaw and heat up. we cut up cheese from the fridge, prepared a small charcuterie in a hobnail server. we made lemonade. it’s easier to make lemonade when you know that all will be well again.

i would imagine it’s nearly impossible to make lemonade when nothing will be well again. that kind of spirit, that kind of chutzpah, that kind of fortitude is hard to muster in desperate situations. we – once again – felt humbled by the destruction felt around the world, our own immediate problem less than a mere blip in comparison.

there are many lessons learned from perspective. much humility learned from knowledge. a realization of interconnectedness – we-are-all-brothers-and-sisters – learned from even the smallest degree of empathy. and the stunning acknowledgement that fighting, the subjugation of people all over the world, cruelty beyond compare continues on and on and on as we burn our candle.

it was early when we tucked in under an extra comforter. snowflake flannel sheets, two comforters and a handmade quilt – even with mighty cold house temperatures – were cozy and we fell asleep, exhausted and knowing the next day would bring both the hope of reconnected power and the beginning of the blizzard.

post-nightfall, standing in the living room – bathed in light – we looked at each other not sure what to do next.

but first – first we were grateful.

*****

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

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a recognition. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

it was pretty sloggy. there was still snow on the trail. that which had melted from bright sunlight and milder temperatures made the trail muddy. very muddy. did i mention muddy?

we had on hiking boots that have uppers made of gortex. i am not crazy about my boots – i was attached to my last pair and don’t have a relationship with this pair, not yet, not even after so many miles. nevertheless, i must say that this pair kept my feet dry, which does make me a tad bit fond of them.

it was hard to stay quiet as we hiked – the sloshing sound of our boots on the path was undeniable: humans are here.

it was also hard on the legs. similar to walking in deep sand, it’s a different workout in mud and snow and ice.

we were about to turn around and head back home to a wee happy hour, but decided to keep on going a little longer.

we came up the rise and there they were, staring at us. two gorgeous deer, absolutely still. they blended into the fields, everything a seasoned shade of tan or brown.

we had eye contact – the lead deer and i. i whispered to it, trying to reassure it – even telepathically – that it was absolutely safe. we stood, watching each other.

eventually i slowly moved forward a bit, to take a picture closer-up. eventually, both deer bounded down the rise and across the trail, heading for the river.

and what a sight.

they carefully picked their way across the river, walking on the ice skillfully, even as i held my breath, hoping for their arrival on the other side.

and we just stood and watched.

i’m sure other things were going on around us – and beyond – as we stood and watched. i’m sure people elsewhere were moving about, the world had plenty of events – both extraordinary and horrific.

maybe as we stood there something big changed somewhere. maybe as we stood there nothing changed anywhere. the tilt of the axis, the spin of the earth just simply continued keeping on.

but – in us – we could feel it.

a connection with all other things living, a sense of longing for the safety of all – particularly those who and which are most vulnerable, and, once again – but never enough to consistently remember it every second of every day – a recognition of beauty and the transitory.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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EARTH INTERRUPTED mixed media 50.25″ x 41″

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the stars and us. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

there are moments when it takes some extra energy to get out from underneath a warm sherpa throw blanket. it was dark. we had eaten dinner. the olympics were on. dogga was sleeping on the rug. we were snugged under the blanket, warm and cozy, tired after a long week. i could tell that neither of us was necessarily motivated to get up and go out.

but we did.

and, for that – the tinygiant bit of effort it took to move the blanket, put on boots, grab our coats and hats and gloves and keys – i am grateful.

one of the local parks was having an event friday night – a candlelit self-guided trail hike – to celebrate valentine’s day. it is one of our favorite local trails through the woods and so we had reserved tickets ahead of time. only….in the way that actuallygoing gets in the way of lazingaround….we had to buck up and go.

like i said, grateful.

we’d reserved the latest time slot, thinking there might be less people on the trail that way. we needed quiet, to be surrounded by familiar trees – even in silhouette – the inky sky above, stars twinkling.

we hiked it twice. the first time there were just a few other groups. the second time we were absolutely alone.

it was exquisite.

with just simple luminaria bags here and there showing the trail, we hiked along in the dark on a path we know oh-so-well in daylight. we’ve hiked it also as the sun sets, lingering and finishing just before dark. but this time…

we spoke a bit as we walked, but mostly listened to the sound of our boots crunching on what remained of the snow. it was the perfect end to our day and our week, and the perfect backdrop to the conversation we were having about d’s 65th birthday the next day.

he asked me how i felt when i turned 65 and i shared the myriad of feelings i had as that had approached.

mostly, i told him, i felt like it was freeing. i felt like i no longer had giant expectations or convoluted ideas of what success was. i had a different measure of achievement. i felt like it was easier to understand presence, being right where one is. i felt like some things – things that don’t really matter – just slipped away, like a silk scarf.

and, the thing i really realized was that i was just like the stars above us on that trail that very night: just a bit of dust that got to be, that had the good fortune of life, of time present on this earth.

the candlelit trail was the sweetest way to spend friday night. nothing extravagant, just the woods and snow, the stars and us.

sooo worth getting out from under the blanket.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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freaking chase it. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

i tore out the page from the stio catalog because the words spoke to me: “chase bliss”.

a few days ago we spent some significant time in the emergency room. i told the youngish doctor there that i could count the number of times in my entire life that i had been to the emergency room, likely on two hands. i do not take going there lightly and i trust that the brilliant minds gathered there – in that tiny ecosystem – will help me…not only in my pain and confusion, but in my fear as well.

i told him this because he kept cutting me off mid-sentence as i was trying to explain my symptoms and as i was trying to ask him questions. he acted as if i was undermining his authority. i was simply being a patient. the more he stopped me from talking, the more i knew i needed to advocate for myself. i told him that the first step in empathy is listening, to which he defended himself by telling me he had spent more time with me than anyone else, including “the guy in the next room who died and came back.” wow. we are not talking equivalencies here. we are simply talking good bedside/doctor-patient communication.

the moments when i felt inordinate and unexplained constant pain that i hadn’t ever experienced before were frightening. all i wanted to do on that gurney was try to understand it, treat it, feel normal and go home.

it’s now the next day, friday, a bit before this blog posts. i am sipping coffee. i can hear the birds outside near the feeder, black-capped chickadees, cardinals. i am grateful for the quilt, the dogga at my feet, d next to me. i am cautiously checking in on how i am feeling and giving thanks for much less pain, and – hopefully – an end to the crisis.

though not ready to spring out from under the covers, i am ready to chase bliss.

no joke.

it doesn’t have to be grandiose. it doesn’t have to cost money or require dedication beyond what i am capable of giving right now.

but bliss nonetheless.

i just downloaded a new book for us to read together. this is bliss.

we will fill the bird feeder again today and put seed on barney and the potting stand. this is bliss.

we will watch the flurries fall. this is bliss.

we are making dinner tonight for 20, a day late. this is bliss.

i’ll have a phone call with a beloved old friend this weekend. this is bliss.

next week we will gather with our dear friends to start watching the entirety of the seinfeld show together. this is bliss.

we plan to make irish guinness stew for the up-north-gang in our stew-agogo early in the week. this is bliss.

we will wander about in our old house, cleaning and cleaning out. this is bliss.

we will bundle up and traipse out onto our favorite trail. this is bliss.

have a little text exchange with the girl and the boy. this is bliss.

lay on the floor and hug dogga. this is bliss.

listen to george, mike oldfield, john denver, james taylor, arvo. bliss.

watch the olympics. bliss.

dance in the kitchen with d. bliss.

dream aloud plans for a little bit later. bliss.

breathe. bliss.

it’s not decadent. it’s not complicated. it’s different for everyone, everywhere, i know.

but in a world that is fraught, a world that seems to be listing toward the ruthless, the uncaring, the oppressive, the tyrannical – a harsh world – it doesn’t seem to be overstating that bliss becomes even more imperative than it already was.

to recognize it, to seek it, to freaking – and whole-heartedly – chase it.

yes.

*****

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

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the way of the dandelion. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

aaaaaah.

no one really prepares you.

every single bit of the dandelion that is you is unprepared for the flight of the fluffy feathery pappus of the puffball off and beyond.

though the flight of these filaments is your ultimate goal – to give lift to these children who have merely been loaned to you for a time – their jet-stream-like flight takes you by surprise, leaves you a little breathless and a little astounded as you watch them fly, dispersed by the wind. your hearts – the extra ones that were birthed in you at the time of their arrival – clench a little in the moment of their departure, wonder at the very, very big change in how you are then defined in the world.

and you realize, perhaps, that you suddenly understand how your own sweet momma (and dad) felt. the moment they retired and moved. the moment you moved away, likely to not return to live in their locale again. the moment you no longer stop by at any old time. the moment it required more planning, more travel, more arrangements to see each other.

and you try to adjust – your little dandelion heart works hard to put it all into perspective, to recognize the natural order of things, to grok that this is the way of the universe – birth, growth, independence. it is the way of the dandelion. as beautiful as it was, the yellow flower was not the pinnacle; the puffball is essential for these amazing children to go, to become, to make their mark on the world, to change things for all time.

but that same little dandelion heart sometimes just aches a little – for the days they were satisfied with lap-sitting and book-reading together, or the days you endlessly shopped together, or the days you sat on the sidelines of their game or their match or their race or their concert or their recital, or the days you simply were together – sharing space and time – sharing time in the same space.

i knew my own momma was my biggest fan – despite any disagreement we might have had along the way. she was the cheerleader of my life in the same way that i carry pompoms for my own children, in all their sharing of steep summits and challenges and bliss and angst. they will always be the first thing i think of in the morning and the last thing at night as i tuck them in with whispered prayers i poof to them like blown kisses or – maybe – like dandelion pappus in the breeze.

time will keep moving and i can feel it now.

“it’s friday again,” i look at d.

“and it’s june,” he replies.

wow.

and my grown children keep growing – in their own physical, concentric worlds. and i keep going – in mine. and when those two worlds meet – when they bump up against each other and sit still for a spell – my dandelion heart is ecstatic.

*****

FISTFUL OF DANDELIONS © 1999 kerri sherwood

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be a good rollie pollie. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

many, many years ago – when my children were little – they used to play a computer game called bugdom. it was based on perspective from – well – a bug’s life. the actual plot – as i recall – is way too contemporaneous now for comfort but the graphics – at the time – were fascinating and the mac version of this game was amazingly realistic. winding your way between bits of vegetation and rocks, you could feel immersed in bugdom as you – playing the part of a rollie pollie – try to save other bugs – like ladybugs – after an evil and tyrannical ambush of the bug kingdom. like i said, too close for comfort.

i often think about what things look like from a different perspective. it is essential as artists. the trying-to-stand-in-someone-else’s-shoes thing is important to me. things that are affecting bugdom are not just the things that are affecting me. since all of bugdom is interconnected, anything that is affecting one is, therefore, also affecting me. we try not to be so isolated – or cavalier – as to think that the plight of the ladybugs will not affect us rollie pollies.

so i get down on my knees to shoot photographs from a vantage point swinging on a snowdrop or a wild daffodil leaf. i sit on the ground to shoot pictures through the may apples. i take videos of caterpillars on their plane of existence, practically laying on the ground.

because everything changes when your perspective changes – when you allow for a shift in how you are looking at something, when you entertain empathy and compassion – when you stand in another’s shoes.

somewhere in the old romper room do-bee song i’m guessing there’s a line that says “do be a good rollie pollie.”

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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cammy. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

we commonly talk for our dogga. we talked for our babycat as well. we talk for wildlife in the woods. we talk for other drivers on the road. i talk for my toes. d talks for his knees. we pretty much animate anything.

including this veiled chameleon.

we rarely go to pet stores. but when we do go to a pet shop, it is with our hearts on our sleeves. this time the chameleon captured us.

i realize that he is being fed and watered (hopefully) properly and that his environment will be changed as he grows, but i couldn’t help but feel a sense of sadness as i watched him clawing at the glass of his terrarium.

as if he could understand what was happening in this chaotic world – sensing it perhaps – we stood with him, inches away, and interpreted the look on his face.

and in the strange way that all of us inhabitants of this earth somehow align, i was feelin’ it too. rejecting the idea that i was projecting my thoughts onto this small reptile, i told him that we were on the same page – with our shock, our dismay, our pointing fingers, our plea for a plan to make the chaos stop. we were one for these moments – cammy and me – and, in these same moments, i was reminded – once again – of how all the creatures – interconnected – human and critter – on this good earth could care about each other.

it’s been balmy the last couple days and we have been out on the trail, immersed in the beauty of the whole tapestry. i would bet that all of the people involved in the destruction of this country aren’t outside much. they have little to no perspective about how small they really are. somehow the almighty dollar has usurped any sense of camaraderie with the beings of the universe, somehow the climactic high of power has decimated their hearts and consciences. somehow they have lost it all while trying to seize it all.

we visited cammy again before we left the store. i whispered to him that i wouldn’t forget him. he whispered back the same. we exchanged a “what-now???” look that doubled as “get-me-outta-here”.

we walked toward the double doors that opened as we approached just as cammy went back to clawing the glass.

*****

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guttah. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

his name is guttah. he stands right off our deck, just yards away from the back door and the gutter overhead that started to ice-dam in perfect ice-damming conditions which necessitated use of the snow rake that pulled all the snow off the sunroom roof onto the deck and subsequently down onto the patio where it piled up and invited guttah to come to life. and so, there he is.

he looks a little stunned and i’m guessing he is. suddenly, he came out of d’s imagination and into the snow. suddenly, he got eyes of coal and sticks for a nose and mouth and arms and ornamental grass hair. suddenly, he is. pretty existential stuff.

we don’t know where guttah was before this. zooming around the universe in some jet stream, looking for a place to self-actualize, perhaps. we do know that his arrival prompted dogga to sniff and wonder. so that, in turn, has me wondering.

what does guttah see – here in this world of packed snow? what does guttah ponder as he stands there, looking a bit astounded? is he searching for meaning, for balance or healing in what he could see as he zoomed from non-existence into existence? or is he desperately looking for a way back to wherever he came from?

if i were a snowbeing that just arrived from the galaxy of ice crystals and snowflakes, i most certainly would be questioning the intention of bringing me to life. particularly right now.

but after perusing the contemporaneous news of my newfound home, after looking around, grokking all that is happening, i would be certain of the reason.

for i would recognize that my very existence had brought about a bit of giddiness, a little bit of laughter, many smiles, conversation, a fun photo shoot. my existence had made the day of ice-damming, another day of negative-news, the coming polar freeze just a bit easier.

and for that, i would stand in anyone’s yard, off their deck, on their patio or in their grass.

guttah will likely be around for a bit of time. windchills are going to be below zero for a few days, at least.

i have to say, he is a pretty adorable addition to the fam.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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

because sometimes you need a gentle reminder that you are not all-that and, for that matter, neither is anyone else, there was this moon.

we are the tiniest.

and out-there is the most-vast.

our tiny lives will someday be but a fraction of a fraction of the smallest division of time itself. there will likely be no one in the time-down-the-long-long-road (if there is a time-down-the-long-long-road and we haven’t destroyed our planet first) who will remember us or refer to us, pine for us or credit us with anything.

as i stood in the kitchen, tears streaming down my face – grieving for this earth, this world, this country, this community, this extended family – i slowly – very, very slowly – calmed down enough to breathe. and when i breathed i could feel my feet. standing on the old wood floor of our old kitchen in our old house.

and even though my grief was still there – the ache inside my heart palpable – and all that had happened – long ago and not too long ago and the very day my feet were planted on the floor – was still the truth of what happened, the ugly cry that had taken over my body started to ease up.

and i could feel d’s arms holding me and dogga nudging my leg and i was back from that place where nothing feels right.

there is much to grieve. we all have burdens, sheer disappointments, heartbreak, things that frustrate us out of our gourd. we have been hurt and we have hurt others. we share these commonalities. there are none among us who skate through life unscathed and not-scathing. it is humanness. there is no human who may escape this, no human gender or race or ethnicity or religion or ladder rung or any other identifying characteristic that is above this, that is impervious, that is best.

for any one of us to be cavalier about hurting another, to be flippant about minimizing others, to be complicitly silent in the face of malfeasance, to cheer on immorality or a lack of decency is to forget how very tiny we each really are. to distort what being alive is.

this extended family, this community, this country, this world, on this earth – our time is finite. perhaps we should spend it in goodness and not evil. bound together by that which we all have in common:

we all breathe in and out the same way standing here under the sliver of moon in the vast sky of the vast galaxy of the vastest universe.

it would do us well to remember that.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this FLAWED WEDNESDAY

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not going back. [kerri’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab.]

it all started with a print hanging in our bedroom. it needed to move somewhere else and it needed to be replaced with something different or nothing, blank wall space.

and so I took the print off the wall and brought in the vintage piece i thought might work. we held it up and hung it up. a little bit of change.

i went into my studio and pulled out an old full-of-personality metal tripod work light we had found at an antiques flea market this summer. it was five dollars and it actually worked. i brought it into the living room, wanting to find a spot for it.

i think it was the five-dollar-metal-dome that started the avalanche. still in our buffalo plaids, we set to work.

now, usually when people decorate they go to furniture stores and home good type places looking for pieces, new items to incorporate into their decor. but that’s not budgeted at this time, so we tried using different eyes as we looked at what was in place, what was in the basement stored, how we could change things up, refresh our home.

in the end, we spent the entire day rearranging. many spaces were treated to a littlebittachange – the living room, the dining room, the sunroom, the foyer. we imagined all kinds of things – maybe in the future some of those will happen.

and we laughed to find ourselves at 7pm – still in red buffalo plaid – ready for some leftover homemade soup.

the best part of the day, though, was a realization. at 7, sipping a friday night glass of wine with our tomato soup, we realized that neither of us had thought about or talked about the current political turmoil. it was a relief to be lost in something positive, something productive, something personally gratifying.

i know that as i go into the rooms of our home today it will strike me somewhat differently today than during yesterday’s flurry. i – sometimes – don’t do change well and my threadiness includes my surroundings.

but this time may be different. this time i think i will walk around our home and imagine all the potential of our future here. this time i will again feel the comfort of this old house, no matter what the decor. this time i will be decidedly more open-minded about not changing it all back.

because going forward – in all its shapes and forms – and not going back – holding to hope and possibility needs to override the exorbitant negativity – the absolute control-mongering insanity – so prevalent in our country right now.

we sat in the old wooden glider – moved – surprisingly – from the deck into the living room – and talked about the new perspective it gave us on the room.

“furry pillows will offset the rough-hewn-ness,” i coaxed him. we glanced around the room – at the peeling-paint-chunk-of-concrete in the role of coffee-wine-perch next to the leather recliner, at the portion of desk – with the sawed-off-side next to the radiator – in the role of end-table, at the huge tree branch from the beloved tree out front happy-lit in the middle of the front window and we laughed.

getting lost in our own home – our sanctuary – was just the thing we needed.

and to remember that little bit about control: “let there be an opening into the quiet that lies beneath the chaos, where you find the peace you did not think possible and see what shimmers within the storm.” (john o’donohue)

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

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