reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

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smitten by home. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

“whatever a house is to the heart and body of man-refuge, comfort, luxury-surely it is as much or more to the spirit.” (mary oliver)

we’ll travel a bit soon. a trip that’s been semi-planned – and postponed – for some time. even before setting out, we know it will be great fun, adventuring with friends, moseying the country with them. there is a sweetness to anticipation.

and it’s funny. every time i get close to going away – anywhere – i have a distinct appreciation for our own home. there is something that rises up for me before a trip – a reminder of how really dear home is to me – our old house, our backyard, this amazing lake just a bit to our east, our dogga, our life here. we take walks in the days before leaving and mother earth does her very best at impressing us – a showcase of unparalleled beauty, a display of what’s-right-here.

and it’s no different this time.

even the unexpected worn-gasket-water-pipe-union spewing water into our basement cannot change this feeling. even d’s all-day wet vac duty, carpet that was soaked, stuff that needed to be moved out of the way, the unplanned cost of an expert plumber – even all that didn’t dim this appreciation of home.

we have traveled a lot together and i have become aware of how true it is that you carry home with you. we’ve taken home – together – overseas and all over our nation. this trip will be just the same – a great exploring – while holding home between us.

we are excited to go, to be fed by new places and new experiences, fodder for our muses, our spirits expanding with the time away.

and, at the same time, here i am – smitten by our own home, my spirit filled before we even leave.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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

“neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.” (desiderata – max ehrmann)

we wander down roads peppered with aridity and disenchantment. the impact is exhausting. the fallout can be long-lasting. they – aridity and disenchantment – wind around our fragile hearts, pressing, making us short of breath.

we are disappointed. we believed that others were different. we believed we were cared about, appreciated, that we were held in grace.

we are shaken. for some things take us by surprise, some people take us by surprise. we flail and stumble over these rugged rocks slyly hiding just beneath the road’s surface.

we are hurting. for we feel betrayed. aridity and disenchantment pale; they are dim heartbeats of betrayal.

and we find we must take a moment, a respite on the side of the road. our hearts are floundering.

and – somehow, somewhere – we are reminded. just as we were about to pick up the cynicism white flag, we can see it: love.

and we can feel the river flowing through us and we can feel hope rising. for under the snow the grass is greening.

and we turn away from that which causes us profound thirst, that which prevents growth. and we discard that which has been a rude awakening, that which has elicited utter disillusionment.

and we face the perennial.

*****

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

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not done yet. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

it was nothing short of stunning.

in the juxtaposition of october’s start and summer’s last grasp – up north – we were the recipients of the gift of a subtle duality, the gift of liminal space as the seasons shift and morph into the next: summer falling away and autumn rising.

i am a fall-girl and october is my favorite month. way back when – when color and season analysis was a thing – i was told i was autumn. but i already knew it. and now – in what is defined as the autumn of my life – i find myself looking back so as to look forward, to go forward. sometimes this is with great intention, sometimes it is not at all deliberate.

i stumbled across a video the other day. i was googling a youtube of one of my recordings. second up on the googlelist was a video i had never seen. from 1996, shot and edited by a videographer, this was posted recently as a memorial to him and is a 25 minute snippet of a full-length concert i had played at uw-parkside’s auditorium. i released two CDs that night, my second and third…a dozen albums and so, so many concerts and stages ago.

i pushed the play button.

there are days you wonder where the time has gone, how summer has turned to fall and fall to winter. time has rushed by and, in its fleetingness, you have left behind profound moments, defining moments.

watching this video became one of them. watching this video reminded me.

my straight-bangs-wrinkleless-eye-shadowed face was in her element. i could feeel it.

maybe – in the autumn of my life – in the liminal space of relevant-not-relevant, of summer-fall, of falling away-rising – i’m not quite done yet.

*****

snippets from 1996 CONCERT at UW-PARKSIDE – releasing BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL & THE LIGHTS CDs (a memorial post on YouTube to videographer Harry Stoetzel)

read DAVID’s thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

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hummingbird reminders. [k.s. friday]

we have been tracking them. like really good private investigators – ok, not so brilliant but quietly watching – we watch the map that shows when they might get here. the map plots everywhere a hummingbird has been sighted and so we are anticipating seeing one anydaynow. we are waiting. with no promise at all.

“waiting for a train to go or a bus to come, or a plane to go or the mail to come, or the rain to go or the…” (dr. seuss – oh, the places you’ll go)

it seems that waiting is a thing. “i can’t wait till….” we find ourselves saying. impatient for time to slip by and for the anticipated moment to arrive.

yet, exquisite it is to sometimes simply linger, to stretch out minutes, to wade in the shallows of right now. waiting need not be passive. instead, it is filled with arrows-forward-arrows-back present-time. it is the only thing we can really feel, the only air we can breathe, the only. it is all that we have at the moment.

i’m sitting against the headboard, my pillows falling into the abyss between the iron bars. i can feel wrought iron against my back as i think about readjusting my stack of fluffy polyester and down alternative. i can hear the taptaptap of david typing next to me. i can hear the gentle easy breathing of dogdog at my feet, dozing and dreaming. if i stop typing i can hear birds outside, the pond gurgling, wind in the trees, every now and then chimes. if i close my eyes i can taste the last sip of coffee and see the maypole i thought about on monday’s mayday.

there are many things i cannot wait for. to see my daughter, hug her, hear her voice in the same room. to watch my son perform at pride festival in chicago. to take a roadtrip. to finish a long chapter that has had challenges.

but i am reminded – every day – that to rush would be to miss it all along the way. i am reminded to stroll or, at most, skip.

our trail has signs that designate a trot as the terminal gait. were i on horseback i would be tempted to canter – for the thrill of it. but i would go back and do it all again – walking and, maybe but not likely, trotting. i would stroke the mane of my horse and talk quietly about all we were seeing. i wouldn’t worry about the end nor would i gallop cause i couldn’t wait to get there.

i’d go slow. and try to relish the now, pushing back impatience so as to wait to feel the restlessness of waiting.

the hummingbirds remind me.

it’s all we have at the moment.

*****

waiting ©️ 2005 kerri sherwood

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read DAVID’s thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

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out loud. [d.r. thursday]

and nature studied jackson and drip-technique-painted the leaf on the trail. strategically placing small muddy potholes, it invited hikers and dogs and horses to step in. just as strategically, it placed the leaf nearby, deep brown in leftover autumn paint. soon, creamy splotches and drips and spatterings pollocked the leaf, ever-changed. i couldn’t help but notice as we walked. i felt some slight validation for the paint-spattered-paintings on our walls, the ones where i stood back and threw paint and threw paint and threw paint until i knew it was done.

i was tempted to pick up the leaf, to carry it home with us. i kind of wish i had. i wonder if anyone else noticed it, really noticed it as we did. and then i realize, that it is in our noticing – even just us – that it became a complete work and that it had a place in the world and that it wouldn’t be forgotten.

it was a good reminder for me, and i remind myself to tell d as well, to remind him. the size of the audience never matters, the number of viewers or listeners. even in one person’s experience of any work of art there is meaning.

“if you asked me what i came into this world to do, i will tell you i came to live out loud.” (émile zola)

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY