reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: presence


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older-agers. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

in junior high i wrote a piece which i titled “old age is not a disease”. i was the child of older parents; most of my friends’ parents were at least ten years younger than mine, some fifteen. many of my parent’s friends were also their age and my grandparents were significantly older, so i was surrounded by elders.

i’m not quite sure what compelled me to write this piece, but it was written with fervor and i was passionate about my assertion. though i’m certain it’s somewhere in a bin downstairs, i’ll rely on my tenuous memory when i say i backed it up with facts and a great deal of emotion. always thready and emotional. from the beginning, i suspect.

so i guess it should come as no surprise that i am drawn to things waning. i find the flower on trail past its prime, bowing to the forest floor, petals wrinkling. i find the fallen tree, nurselog to a little community of new trees, striving. i find the dried grasses, glowing in late autumn. my photo library is full of these older-agers.

i keep the daisies until it no longer makes sense. but it seems that is way past when others would keep them. their curling petals no longer crisply open, instead shrinking and closing. they are beautiful. all stages.

daisies are kind of important to us. i was holding a daisy when i met david in baggage claim nine years ago. the second time i met him with a whole armful of daisies. and then, daisies walked with us down the aisle. i suspect they will be with us all along.

so, like us, i recognize their allure in every stage. even in waning.

this past weekend the father of my beloved children, my first husband, turned 65. i wished him a happy birthday and texted that i was astonished that we are the ages we are.

the time between back then and now has flown by and, were i to be defined as a daisy, i am grateful the petals and that yellow center of joy are still present, though a little crumply and a spectrum of many flaxen shades.

i know i don’t look like the daisy of yore. but every stage of a daisy counts.

“may the light of your soul mind you,

may all your worry and anxiousness about becoming old be transfigured,

may you be given a wisdom with the eye of your soul, to see this beautiful time of harvesting.

may you have the commitment to harvest your life, to heal what has hurt you, to allow it to come closer to you and become one with you.

may you have great dignity, may you have a sense of how free you are,

and above all may you be given the wonderful gift of meeting the eternal light and beauty that is within you.

may you be blessed, and may you find a wonderful love in yourself for yourself.”

(john o’donohue – “a blessing for old age” from anam cara)

*****

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


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pink. [k.s. friday]

there is a single tiny pink tulip stenciled in one corner of my daughter’s room. when i repainted her room as a surprise for her during her college years, i could not bear to paint over all the tiny tulips i had stenciled along the ceiling for my little girl’s room what seemed like five minutes before, so i left one. there is something about pink.

just looking at this peony – in full blossom – you can catch a whiff of the sweet scent of this flower. my niece sent me a picture the other day of her peonies with a note, “i wish they lasted longer than five minutes.”

our peonies sat tightly in bud for a few weeks until – suddenly – they exploded into glorious bloom. five minutes later – or maybe a split second or so – petals were scattering onto the patio but we could still catch whiffs on the breeze. but those five minutes…wow.

the botanic garden had all varieties of peonies, in all stages of bloom. you could stand in one place and twirl to see peonies in lush green growth, peonies in bud, peonies in bloom, peonies with blossoms wide, petals falling. there was something about these pink peonies.

my dear sister was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. a devastating blow, she has ridden the coaster of emotions and arrived at warrior. her surgery was a couple of weeks ago and she is waiting now – the interminable wait – for the pathology results. when she found the lump and the dimpling on her breast, she felt pretty sure it was cancer. but it was in the moments of biopsy results that her life changed. the five minutes during which she became a pink ribbon holder.

soon she will know more. she’ll know about the margins and the treatment going forward. she’ll know about how her recuperating pain will change over time. she’ll know about limitations and about percentages. she’ll know about genetics and maybe why she was diagnosed with the same – rarer – cancer our sweet momma had.

right now, she knows about these moments. the moments of abrupt change. the moments of gearing up for a fight. the moments of absolute vulnerability. the moments – from the very first one – of being a survivor. the moments of leaning on others to garner strength and hope. the moments of desperately trying to stay grounded. the moments of grabbing onto now and holding onto the gossamer ties.

there are no right ways. this is cancer and the journey is brutal, unfair, f-ed up. she is one patient in a world of patients. i desperately wish that was different.

my sister. she ordered chocolate ganache cake for lunch. she’s thinking about a pink ribbon tattoo. she is being a beautiful peony.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

IN A SPLIT SECOND from AS SURE AS THE SUN (©️2002 kerri sherwood)

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dancing waters. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

in stop-motion moments, we stood by the fountains and shot photos. the dancing waters mesmerized us, light waning in the sky under the canopy of big trees. it was peaceful, serene. there was no place we needed to be in those minutes, except right there.

the water danced too quickly for us to discern contours of form. the camera made it possible to see those gorgeous images of momentary pause, water suspended. looking at the photographs – enchanting.

“…as water takes whatever shape it is in,
so free may you be about who you become…”

(john o’donohue)

we, in this ever-flowing river, babbling gently like the backyard pond, the mountain stream, or raging like the yellowstone river hurtling through the national park at this time, a part of the continuous-motion movie. our bliss, our concerns, our grievances, the things that distress us, the things over which we ruminate…though they feel to be screeching-to-a-halt, a visual-stop-place where the horizon ends – they continue on and on and life dances around us and through us. life invites us to waltz with it, to two-step, to sing along.

perspective, looking back, it’s all a tiny bit clearer in retrospect. my sweet momma’s words “this, too, shall pass” visit and revisit me. the dance steps we missed along the way are no longer worthy of our dedicated brooding, no longer stop-motion.

dancing water has brought grace of movement – forward. we keep on keeping on in the hazy-lazy-bubbling-frothy-waltzing river.

“…i’ll be there in singing skies and dancing waters
laughing children, growing old
and in the heart and in the spirit
and in the truth when it is told…”

(john denver)

*****

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


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there. [two artists tuesday]

maybe one of the reasons i love brochures so much is the chance they give you of picturing yourself there. a good glossy pages-long-fold-out brochure can transport you, make you dream, put you there.

this morning we were talking about bus tours. not a fan of buses, i am not likely to participate in many long bus tours in upcoming days and years. i know that a bus tour will take a group of people to the highlights, the places-you-don’t-wanna-miss, the photo-ops. but i rail against experiencing those things at the same time as everyone else, in the same way, taking photo turns in front of the cliff edge, the monument, the cathedral. i realized that i would rather miss a few things along the way just so that we could do it ourselves, take our sweet time, breathe it in, immerse in our surroundings, really feel a place before moving on to the next. there may be times that a bus – for a jaunt here or there – might be necessary, but i don’t really want to see everything-on-a-big-trip out the window of a coach line.

my sweet momma and poppo, thinking ahead – and also not bus people (so now you know where i get this) – ordered a vw bug to pick up in germany back in 1971 when they went on an extended roadtrip (clearly genetic) in europe. they tooled around small towns and backroads all over, my mom in her glory with maps, my dad relying on her sense of direction. they sometimes slept at relatives’ homes, sometimes at inns, sometimes at small hostels, and even sometimes in their little bug in a field, once waking up next to a gigantic pile of dung covered with plastic tarps and tires. they adventured and missed stuff, but they immersed themselves and the stories from that time were delicious tales. the missed-stuff didn’t matter. the stuff and people they saw did.

i imagine us – as we watch pct hikers and john muir trail hikers – someday – hopefully – on these trails. i imagine us in all the national parks in utah. i imagine more time hiking our favorite trail in breck. i imagine us chatting with the owners of the general store in putney, vermont. i imagine us walking a bit of the salt path. i imagine us on the cliffs of ireland and the amalfi coast and maybe in the brilliant blue and white of santorini someday. like mr rogers’ “picture picture” i can see the video in my mind’s eye. it satisfies the yearning for now and gives me photos of dreamy quality, viewmaster brochures in my heart.

we spent an evening at the botanic garden, wandering. we didn’t sit down on this particular bench, but i can see us there, feel us there, surrounded by green.

we missed a few of the plant collections that evening, we missed the greenhouse. but we immersed in the paths winding around the garden and breathed differently upon our leave than we had upon our arrival. and that made all the difference.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY


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vine-climbing. [merely-a-thought monday]

the 1977 graduating class of john glenn high school chose this song as our theme song. before the decision and ever since, it has remained a favorite. seals and crofts dominated our senior variety show – the one for which i wore a full wet suit including fins and played a piano duet -, our graduation, our prom, our yearbook. they played over and over in my bedside cassette player, on radio, on stereo systems throughout elwood and, likely, everywhere.

“so, i wanna laugh when the laughing is easy.

i wanna cry if it makes it worthwhile.

i may never pass this way again,

that’s why i want it with you…”

(jim seals, dash crofts – we may never pass this way again)

just last week jim seals died. he was 80. and suddenly, again, time flashes in front of us.

because somehow, listening to their music, i am back at 17 or 20 and they are in their early to mid thirties. but the years come and go and the journey keeps journeying, faster and faster it seems.

and so the moments and presence become infinitely more important and the stuff becomes less. the grand illusion of foreverness becomes foggy and we learn – little by little – sometimes, though, with ferocity – that we must be-here-now. we graduate and grow and regress and grow again and start to see that full spectrum is not so bad – that belly-laughing and weeping are both, indeed, necessary and that as we vine-climb from dirt to sky we are only really here to be with each other.

our beloved daughter was here for a couple days. any time we see her or our beloved son are those kind of rare-gift moments. we giggle and poke fun and talk and reminisce and ponder and there’s eye-rolling and i am astounded by them and, always, i cry upon their leaving or upon our parting. it is the hard part.

i know that we just never know. life has a way of teaching us that – again and again – though it is easy to forget, to push it aside. but the further up the vine we get, the more we recognize it. it is all so fragile. we may never pass this way again. simple. true. a calling, an imperative to say the stuff, to be vulnerable, to experience, to love, to acknowledge, to laugh, to cry, to be-with.

good choice of song, jhghs.

“all the secrets in the universe

whisper in our ears

and all the years, they come and go

and take us up, always up…”

*****

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


					
		
	



					



	

					
				

			
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on the curb. [d.r. thursday]

	


	

					








you can put most anything at the curb and it will soon disappear.  scrappers are on the prowl looking for metal and old appliances, big and small, things that might be repurposed, things that might be tinkered with and sold.





when i put out these three wrought-iron candlesticks i included a sign.  i measured the heights and jotted them on the sign that indicated they were candlesticks.  i was hoping someone who really wanted some taper holders to jaunt by and find them on our parkway.  i didn’t want them to go to scrap.





david said that he saw the person pull up and examine the sign and the bag of candlesticks and that this person gently placed it in the back of his truck, so i’m crossing my fingers he brought them home and showed his partner, suggesting they eat by taper or relax in the evening to the glow of candles.  i guess a girl can hope.





because we don’t generally do big giant things, we tend to celebrate the little stuff.  this past friday evening was one of those times.  right after he finished work, on an absolutely beautiful late afternoon, we got into littlebabyscion and drove south.  as is our way, we took the backroads, arriving at the botanic garden, happy to see the parking lot meagerly parked.  





we strolled through slowly, arm in arm, talking and quiet.  we only had about an hour and a half till its close, but it was an hour and a half of lovely.  it shushed our minds and its serenity was contagious.  





we drove home the back way, through a few small towns with bistro tables on the sidewalks and people gathered, eating and sipping wine.  we pondered stopping and having a bite outside, but continued home to make our own small meal and sip wine under happy lights in our sunroom with our dogga by our side.  it was a peaceful way to start the weekend.





you don’t have to lift every little thing, but we have learned it makes a difference.  the tiny things – a candle burning, a strand of happy lights, a quiet walk, sniffing peonies in a garden, admiring the wild columbine in the woods, stopping to watch a deer glide across someone’s front yard – these things matter.  





you don’t have to be there for each other each moment, but we have learned it makes a difference.  the tiny things – helping the other up off the floor after painting shoe moldings, bringing the other a steaming mug of coffee in a tired-time, clinking the day’s accomplishments, crying with the other’s pain – these things matter.





in one of her books, joyce maynard wrote, “when a person gave less, he required less in return.”  i suppose life could be easier that way, more centric, simpler.  one would not have to notice stuff or do much of anything for another.  the give-and-take of relationship would be low-bar and that might work for some.





but time and life have taught me a few lessons, some much harder than others.  one is that apathy and paying attention are absolute opposites, particularly in relationship.





we’re putting apathy on the curb.





*****





read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY






dancing in the front yard 24″x24″









					
		
	



					



	

					
				

			
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full of beautiful. [d.r. thursday]

	


	

					








i worry about the ferns. fragile, willowy, tender shoots determinedly growing up from under the pile of leaves waiting, decaying, protecting the garden through fall’s end and winter’s scourge until, finally, spring.  and then, there they are.  despite it all.  back in the northwest corner of the yard, tucked in along the fence line and next to the old garage.  





they start slowly, peeking out, and then – voila – they are taller, taller, and unraveling their curly tops, like a modern dancer, curling up one vertebrae at a time, opening and embracing dappled sunlight. without concern for any part of history or future, they just grow.  they are perennials, so keeping them healthy – a bit of simple nurture – ensures this fern garden in the back of our yard.





i’ve grown other plants in this yard through the years.  ornamental grasses, day lilies, ferns, hosta, a couple peonies, these are the thrivers.  purple iris, black-eyed susans, a planted lavender garden all fell to the wayside.  





the neighbor’s snow-on-the-mountain, creeping under the fence, devoured the iris.  wild mustard gave the black-eyed susans a run.  the lavender was taken over by boxwood elder on a rampage.  





but the delicate ferns…through dogdog’s puppyhood and now his adulthood…through the drought and maybe too much sun and maybe too much rain…through the late-late springs and the early winters…have survived.  





in each of them i see the fortitude of the dancer, practicing unfurling vertebrae by vertebrae, forgetting all else – all negativity, all lack, all the torrential storms – in the tender, rich, vibrant forward-movement of now.  full of beautiful.





“there is an entire forest
full of the most incredible flowers,
plants and trees inside you,
and you are ignoring all of it to nurture a single tree
that they planted inside your heart and abandoned.





the people who left you this way
don’t deserve to become your favourite stories to tell.
you are a massive forest full of beautiful and vibrant stories
and every single one of them deserves you more
than those that abandoned you to hell.”





(nakita gill – a forest story)





*****





read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY





visit DAVID’S gallery … full of beautiful












 

					
		
	



					



	

					
				

			
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marcel. in the woods. [two artists tuesday]

	


	

					








in these times, we often hike the same trail.  there is not enough time for long-distance travel right now.  but we are comforted, nevertheless, by this same place, again and again.  it has become an old friend and there is nothing better than someone or something you know really well and love in all its moods and through all its seasons.





it was easter sunday and, for only the second time in decades, i had no obligations.  it was cold – almost miracle-mitten cold – and we were trying to choose between meandering through the early spring flowers at the botanic garden or hiking “our” trail.  we suspected that the botanic garden would be crowded; we believed the trail would be almost empty.  we chose the trail.





you might think we would tire of this trail.  you might think we would choose something else, somewhere else.  you might think there would be nothing new to see.  on the contrary.





i am reminded, as ever – again – now that i am, finally, just the tiniest bit wiser – of marcel proust’s words, “the real voyage of discovery consists not of seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.”





there was lots of trailside vegetation coming alive, tiny buds, green sprouts.  the familiar turns in the path led us past busy squirrels, chipmunks we could hear but not see scurrying in the underbrush, birds and geese and ducks.  





after a couple hours, we set up our pop-up bistro table and chairs in the middle of the woods.  surrounded by tall pines in a spot that would be underbrush-inaccessible in the summer, we sat, in the cold, snacking on cheese and crackers, quinoa tabouli and a few sips of wine in small yeti tumblers with lids, springtime napkins reminding us of the season.  we took our gloves off, had a few schnibbles, put our gloves on, chatted and repeated.  we pulled up our hoods and turned our backs to the wind picking up.  mostly, we sat in the quiet.  





and we looked up.





and there, that which we could have easily missed, was this magnificent view of the blue sky and the towering tops of pine trees that had endured the same forest for a very long time.  





there is nothing ordinary about a view like that.  





an idiosyncrasy, a quirk, a hallmark, a side you hadn’t yet noticed.  such is the complexity of an old friend.  such is the charm of discovery.





*****





read DAVID’S thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY













					
		
	



					



	

					
				

			
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restless and fidgety. [d.r. thursday]

	


	

					








and the saga continues.  april.  “april showers bring may flowers,” someone quips.  everyone turns and snarls.  that kind of positivity is just a bit much.





i looked at my weather app – again.  we have several important places on there:  chicago and charlotte (to see what our kids are experiencing), denver and tampa and columbia (family), breckenridge and dory (mountain towns we check in on), brevard (another mountain town we check in on), washington island (because we lived there), northport (because it was home).  





the weather was iffy this past weekend (no surprises there).  as we drew closer to it, i started googling real estate companies.  zillow and realty.com, redfin, trulia.  looking at houses in places with better weather, houses in places with different terrain, looking at house plans for places we dream about being.  i’ve lived here a long, long time – longer than i have lived anywhere.  it’ll be thirty-four years this year – thirty-three of them in this cherished house – more than half my life.  





and like spring poking at us, teasing, causing us to be restless and fidgety, thoughts of living somewhere else do the same thing.  poke, poke.  prodding me…think about it.  “what’s keeping you here?” someone asked me.  “you grew into it because you had to,” else someone explained my midwest life.





the sky is glowing orange right now.  literally glowing.  there is some fog over the lake so the rising sun is diffusing into it.  it’s pretty stunning.  i suspect it’s supposed to be some sort of consolation prize for the rain and snow.  uh-huh.  





the sun pops out over the cloud of fog and streams into the bedroom.  the quilt lights up, david peeks out the window, dogga stirs at our feet, the mourning dove outside coos.  and one more morning – yet again – i think about how much i love this home.





*****





read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY