reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: perspective


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

i recently made a chain of paper rings. it had about thirty strips of colored paper – many of the colors visible and invisible in this cloud – each cut with fancy paper scissors or pinking shears, looped, stapled and hung on the closet in our room.

it was a countdown and i needed the visual to keep it all in perspective, to remember to hold it all lightly, to know that there are days before The Day and days after The Day.

our whole lives are filled with paper rings, connected loops that go on and on and on. each season of our lives drops to the floor when we cut the loops loose and then – miraculously and on cue – the next season starts.

i had placed a lot of emphasis on The Day at the end of the paper chain. when it arrived, not only was it anticlimactic, it turned out to be utterly disappointing, completely unsatisfactory and a day that had been overemphasized in my mind and heart as we headed toward it, lopping off loop after loop.

i suppose that this is not uncommon. anticipatory angst, anticipatory fear, anticipatory grief, anticipatory glee at completing something – they are all supercharged and take up a lot of space in us. i read that the buddha would view it as dukkha– which is unnecessary suffering – that which pulls us away from the present moment. the wish for a specific outcome rails against the fear of that outcome not coming to fruition – it all is a tug-of-war and is suffering itself. at the end of the paper chain something is to happen – we imagine the best, we imagine the worst – all unwritten, all fictitious, unpromised though powerful – but what about every moment – every loop – in the meanwhile?

the rainbow in the cloud was just beautiful. it morphed and changed with the wind, but it stuck around for a while before it vanished. we watched from the adirondack chairs on the patio, content to be in its company.

maybe it was a reminder that nothing is permanent, that no paper chain has a guarantee, that each loop counts. and so does every color.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this 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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all the phases. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

the sowthistle can’t help but stand in all the phases of its life at the same time.

and i wonder what wisdom it can impart by doing just that – standing simultaneously in bud through flower through feathery seed into senescence.

being able to see the stage that is next, the stage that was before, the stage that was the beginning, the stage that will be the end – perhaps this is perspective-arranging, perhaps it zeros one in – on what is right now.

i wonder if the sowthistle thinks about any of this. does it base any of its thistling decisions on this omnipresent view of the arc of life, on the conglomerate-rock plant approach – or does it just live, detached from stressing, disconnected from the mindset of striding through stages upon which it has little impact?

and what about us? what if we could see our whole life right in front of us? what if we knew – from beginning to end – how it would all shake out?

don’t we, though? sort of?

don’t we know that we will somehow travel through these stages – the beginning, the middle, the end – that we will somehow grow and change and celebrate and grieve and jump and hang back and be active and sedentary, brilliantly productive and passively idle, bowled over and resilient, profoundly angst-filled and radically happy, loving and beloved, young and – hopefully – old.

is the sowthistle consistently sanguine, glass-half-full, amazed at simply living?

as we hiked by this bit of meadow, sowthistle wild on the side of the trail, i was struck by the all-in-one-frame of thistle – all its life cycle – a life arc in one tiny space of dirt.

and in the way that nature reminds us – all the time – i was immediately aware of my own life arc, my own mysterious timeline.

and mary oliver whispered – once again – this time from the tangle of buds and flowers and seeds – because she can never ask this enough – “what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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one glorious iota. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

“…and the moon rises, so beautiful it makes me shudder, makes me think about time and space, makes me take measure of myself: one iota pondering heaven…” (mary oliver – the sweetness of dogs)

in the moments we all sometimes immerse – those moments when we take ourselves way too seriously, when we feel intertwined with angst, when we foolheartedly believe there is allthetimeintheworld – we should sit and watch the moon rise.

it has risen every day whether or not the old truck’s battery was dead, whether or not all the burners on the stove worked, whether or not we wore namebrand clothing or had namebrand cars, whether or not the student loans were paid, whether or not the bedroom furniture matched, whether or not we had a few pounds to shed, whether or not we had a mighty 401k, whether or not we had granite countertops, whether or not my hair looked good, whether or not the old wood floors squeaked, whether or not we had extension eyelashes, whether or not we had plaques or certificates lining our office walls, whether or not the chimney leaked, whether or not we had visited saint lucia or monaco, whether or not we had a 72″ tv, whether or not we had central air conditioning, whether or not we had a walk-in closet or a dishwasher, whether or not we were retail fanatics, whether or not we had followers, whether or not we had fiscal or commercial success, whether or not we lived authentically.

because the moon is like that. it is incessantly dependable. it is a sure thing. it is the tide of our souls. its passing by – its wax and wane – brings us to the peaks and the abysses, both.

and though we may – from time to time – linger in the whatwedon’thaves, that moon – annoyingly – is unperturbed by it all. its rise, its fall – like breath in our chest. we, like the moon, keep going nonetheless.

and i stood and looked at the tiny crescent moon above our beloved old house and i could feel all the passage of time – zooming through me – until i arrived at the moment i was in.

and everything i had seen or felt or lived made sense. the dots connected for the briefest moment. and i was – yes – one iota.

one glorious iota.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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no outlines. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

a full box of crayolas at my side, i, too, in my itty-bitty chair at the itty-bitty table, would outline the image on the coloring book page and then color it all in. like there was some artistic reason for outlining – making a definitive and clear break between the image and the background. for a non-artistic-in-the-sense-of-drawing type, it seemed to make my coloring page look better, cleaner, more striking. i’m not really sure. but it was a popular thing to do – this outlining thing – and, though i don’t know who initially suggested it, nearly everyone colored their pages that way. you could see it on the ever-important bulletin board wall.

if i were to pick up a coloring book and crayons now i might even just fall back into old patterns, grasping the crayola stub in my hand tightly, pursing my lips and concentrating on not drawing off the line. then i would color it all in – in the lines – and my page would be neat and tidy and whatever other adjective might apply, synonymous with success.

when i color in “adult-colored-pencil-coloring-books” i have found that i don’t do this – i just color with my pointy pencils – no outlines, no outlining. is it the difference between the paraffin wax/powdered color pigment combo of crayons and the pigments/binding agents/fillers/casing used in pencils? is it some leftover art lesson from elementary school – where the emphasis was on some sort of impossible sought-after perfection for our coloring sheets? and why – knowing me – did i not color out of the lines? well, i can answer that one. back then i was an in-the-lines colorer, going with the crowd, hoping to get my picture on the bulletin board wall.

i move up close to the peonies in our garden out back. they stand their ground as i move around, right in their little peony faces, alternately snapping photos and taking big whiffs of their intoxicating scent.

there are no outlines here. everything up this close blurs as my depth of field changes, my point of focus changes, my intent changes.

were i to make this photograph a coloring sheet – an accurate coloring sheet – it would require fuzzy lines – no clear outline – instead, a fade of one color into the next, maybe difficult to capture with a stub of crayon looking to make something definitive.

but life is more like that. less definitive, more fuzzy. it is less distinct and more out-of-focus. it is less green and white, and more grey. there are no outlines and, if you really get it, there’s no ever-important bulletin-board-wall upon which to hang up your life.

it just is.

and the moments we get to sniff peonies or color out of the lines, to allow the unfocused to swirl around us, to not get all caught up in the bulletin-board-wall – those are the moments to grasp, to hold onto, to store away as balm for those other moments – the ones that test us, that hand us crayons with impossible confidence-taxing expectations, that, somehow, in all the chaos, make us forget that peonies exist. craziness.

and so, no outlines. just color.

“…you write about my flower as if i think and see what YOU think and see of the flower – and i don’t.” (georgia o’keeffe)

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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through the viewfinder. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

i suppose it depends on how big your viewfinder is. looking through the viewfinder of a handheld camera brings your rapt attention to whatever direction you have aimed it.

as you know, we often watch the youtube videos of hikers on trail at night, before sleep. we hike the trail – vicariously – through their eyes and it is fascinating to see how the trail changes – and how the trail stays the same – through a multitude of viewfinders.

it is particularly helpful to be on the trail “with” these hikers, for their cellphones and gopros are our eyes until that time when we are stepping the millions of steps on a thru-hike path with a hulking backpack and – hopefully – a lovely mule carrying it. (ok, just kidding – about the mule.)

we just read each other our posts from an earlier day, as is our custom. we write from an image but don’t share until after we are done. it was during the reading of one of my posts that we just stopped – full stop – and said how very fortunate we are…despite everything.

though there is much that would need be “shut out” in order to achieve serene peace, we focused for a few minutes on what is a part of our personal viewfinders.

for a while – years, maybe – i carried a white cardboard square slide frame in my wallet. my dear friend crunch had told me that there might be times that holding the slide frame up in front of me (not close to my eye), closing one eye and focusing on only what i could see through it – while blocking out everything else – might help my perspective. one thing at a time, not the whole picture. sometimes i have found that is necessary.

“just look through the viewfinder…” and the peripheral stuff falls off. at least momentarily. we all have it – all that peripheral stuff, some of which sets the entire somber tone for the entire country, even the whole global world, some of which is personal and keeps us burdened and struggling, some of which is just the picayune detail of life and living, some of which is a bit lighter, less difficult to carry.

years ago my beloved teacher and friend andrea wrote to me, “nothing is idyllic. i think we have idyllic moments. we have to take time to savor what is around us.”

the viewfinder keeps us in the moment and doesn’t let us forget to acknowledge the right now. it keeps us appreciative of the way it feels to smell the coffee in the morning or hear the earliest bird calls. it’s perspective-arranging, gives us a breath when we can hardly breathe. it helps us see the glimmer on the water, the mica right around us. it is life-giving, even if just for a small bit of time.

it gives us what we need to then leave that narrow focus and, once again, look at the whole horizon and all of that which is there.

****

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

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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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