reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

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if we were featherdusters. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

and what if we, like the sweet autumn clematis, were each merely one featherduster, one long, wispy tendril birthed from a maroon-brown pod joined with other maroon-brown pods on a single branch of a single vine.

what is it we would do with our wispiness, our soft fluffy plumes, tiny jet engines to propel us near and far? what seeds would we disperse, what knowledge would we dispense, what silvery sheen would we spread?

what would we choose to do with our one, wild featherduster life, our one journey through air, aided by wind, abetted by the twirling of our feathertail? where would we go, what jet stream would we join? what earth song would we sing? what would we touch – ever so lightly – brushing past, barely felt, a tickle of plume?

what if that were all we had? would we join with all the other featherdusters, an intertwined community seeding community? or would we spend our time engaged in disjointed competitive infighting with the others? would we choose a path on which we might twirl through together or would we choose to shoot off, like that one plane in a memorial fly-by, forging a new trail in air, bushwhacking through underbrush? what would our desire path be?

what if that had been our passage in this place? what if our featherduster existence had been it? would we have been all in? would we have given our best? would we have embraced seeding more clematis – like seeding more shimmery goodness? or would we have held back, continually waiting for something glorious to happen, for better weather, or for whatever later might be?

*****

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

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

spent. the at-least-ten-foot-tall sunflower by the library looks spent. but oh, no, it is not spent. the transience of its time – of time itself – is just the beginning of a new phase, a new purpose, a new cycle. its seeds perpetuate its enduring soul. it keeps on.

“i’ve spent the past fifteen hundred days working tirelessly toward a single goal – survival. and now that i’ve survived, i’m realizing i don’t know how to live.” (suleika jaouad)

and so, here in the little garden just outside our favored library in town, this sunflower is still in its glory. tall, stately, i still catch my breath to see it. alone, it towers above all else there.

today we will have irish stew and mashed potatoes for dinner. it is not a traditional big turkey extravaganza nor is it a gathering of many at our table on this day. but we two will sit – with candles and cloth napkins and steaming bowls and bread – and we will give thanks for each person in each of our phases who have helped us work toward survival, helped us with endurance, with purpose.

we will be grateful for the full table in our dining room just two weeks ago, our beloved children, with us. we will offer up thanks for the food we will eat, for each other, for cherished ones, for being together. we’ll likely chat about thanksgivings of our growing-up, tales of earlier grown-up thanksgivings, thanksgivings when – to their delight – our childrens’ dad did an early-morning turkey-dance with the turkey, thanksgivings when our parents did the traditional end-of-the-table carving.

and we’ll dream about thanksgivings to come when – hopefully – this nation will have come back to its senses, when it will lead with gratitude and appreciation for all its people and its wildly fantastic diversity. we’ll ponder when extended families might return to the holiday table together, in love and generosity, with compassion for each other and all the others, all schisms laid out forever to rest. we’ll wonder about the seeds of the soul of this day – thanksgiving – and the true honesty and heart behind the honest and heartfelt wish – “happy thanksgiving” – we’ve heard so many times this week before today.

we are reminded every day – by something or other – that we all don’t really know how to live. it goes beyond survival, beyond the giant yellow bloom on the ten foot tall stalk. it stands the transience of time and its soul of goodness endures, cycle after cycle.

it is not spent.

and we are grateful for another chance to keep on.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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blink-of-an-eye. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

in a really rare moment, we had the amazing chance to have our children and their partners gather around the dining room table with us. to say i was thrilled would be an absolute understatement. it had been six years since we had actually been together – my two children and us. it was a giant gift and i am grateful for it.

plates, pasta, wine, bread – all were merely props as i gazed around me, watching these beloved faces, listening to laughter and conversation. i tried hard to memorize all of it. these brilliant, creative seeds of tomorrow, bright lights of real humans, of good people.

the next day we hiked, just d and me, after everyone had left. we talked about our blink-of-an-eye time with our adult children, about the fun chaos in the kitchen the night before, about the teasing and the ribbing. and i found myself holding onto the filmy threads of each moment before they flew away.

the photographs will help, of course. they will be posted in our kitchen and i will pass by them, often looking at them and smiling. but inside, i will hold onto the way it all felt, the heart-stopping hunger i had felt longing for a moment together, the breath i could exhale as i sat at the same table with my children and their partners or as we all clustered together in photographs.

but i know i won’t be able to hold onto all of it. time tugs at memory like that.

and the clustered fluffs of seeds will be tugged out of the pod by gentle breezes and fierce winds. they will swirl about and land somewhere, planting. another milkweed.

and i hope there will be another table-sitting somewhere soon – all together – as these brilliant humans go about their all-grown-up lives, swirling about with gentle breezes and fierce winds at their backs.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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golden moment. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

they were luminescent as the noon sun caught them in its grasp. magical. glowing. each individual seed seemed poised for takeoff, ready to catch the breeze, twirl and fly.

it is much like how i am feeling as i painstakingly go through the house … the bedrooms, the attic, the basement …

the memories all gather on the plume, ready to catch the next breeze and twirl in front of me, bringing me back to moments a long while ago – many decades or even just a few years.

they are golden, these memories, and i give them time as i touch the relics, leftovers saved. i’m trying to go slow, even as i wish to accomplish much quickly. my thready heart relishes what i can remember, even when it sorts to sadness, even when it sorts to tears. in the timeline of life, i am bobbing around like the crazy super balls we had as kids – the ones with bouncing trajectories you couldn’t predict. the wham-o super ball would zig and zag and i am zigging and zagging through time just like that.

sometimes i have to leave a box or a bin or a pile for a bit, step away and breathe through it. i have found that touching these objects – the tactile – makes it all real and up-close, almost like it’s now. and, because i am the sensitive, emotional type, i have to step back … back into the room, straighten up, look out the window, pet the dog, sip some water. it can be overwhelming, this going back stuff.

as the bins empty and the sorting keeps going – this is merely phase one – i can feel the space opening. i can feel the air of whatever is next. i will still save many things, though i know that perhaps some will be relinquished in phase two or three. it gives me a bit more time with the artifacts of my life.

and the treasured antiquities nod as i put them in the save pile. they know it is their golden moment – their chance to twirl for me, their flight with me. they are as luminescent as the plumes, ever so countless, glowing in the noon sun.

*****

HOLDING ON, LETTING GO © 2010 kerri sherwood

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light that fire. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

“only when a fire sweeps through, melting the resin, do these heat-dependent cones open up, releasing seeds that are then distributed by wind and gravity.” (national forest foundation)

one by one we fed ten lodgepole pine cones into our small solstice fire. one by one we silently whispered a prayer, a wish, a hope for each one. one by one we watched them ignite, slowly burning off the resin and sending off invisible seeds into the universe.

it was a perfect summer night. the wind had shifted off the lake and it was at least ten degrees cooler than it had been. we sat on the back patio for hours. it was quiet, peaceful.

it seemed a good night to look to something new, to celebrate the light of the solstice, the potency of life. it seemed a good night to lean into the lodgepole’s protection from unwanted energy, from evil influences. it seemed a good night to embrace resilience and renewal.

we have saved these pinecones, ever so slowly choosing them for release from a boxful that had been gifted us by a dear friend for our wedding. her words about fire and light and rejuvenation were truly soul gifts and we hold closely these precious lodgepole pinecones.

this morning i read that pine is “generally associated with longevity and wisdom, instilling courage and optimism.”

in the coincidence of the universe, these were a few of the words i held as i watched the pinecones i added to our solstice fire burn.

wisdom, longevity, courage, optimism, resilience, renewal, light, abundance, bounty.

it would seem that our nation needs to – figuratively – gather as many lodgepole pine cones as possible.

we need protection from the evil energy and influence that now seem indelibly woven into the fabric of this nation.

we need to seed something else entirely.

light that fire.

*****

read DAVID’s blog on TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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oh, the mayhem. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

oh, the mayhem.

the wind blows.

there are about 200 seeds in a single dandelion fluff. even in the gentlest of breezes, the dandelion field scatters everywhere – seeding, seeding – more dandelions, more dandelion fields.

oh, the mayhem.

88 keys.

the clusters of piano keys that might be in any piece of music. consider just a three-note composition. in the simplest of equations, assuming once the first choice is made you must move on to the second choice and then the third choice, one has 88 keys to choose from x 88 keys to choose from x 88 keys to choose from – merely 681,472 options for any given composer on any given day working to write just the first three notes of a melodic gesture.

oh, the mayhem.

choices.

for the painter and a canvas, a writer and a pad, a dancer and a wood floor, a potter and blocks of clay, a blogger and a computer keyboard.

it – the imperative to mayhem – calls us. to make something out of it all. to birth something out of the raw materials, to use our tools to create, to choose direction, to express artistic vision – what we see or hear or feel – a passion – that might – or might not – touch others.

there is no guarantee, no real proverbial “if you build it, they will come”. it doesn’t just happen that way. it is an imperative nonetheless.

the imperative to show up, to engage in the mayhem.

i’ve done much of my composing in-between other things, stealing time – minutes even – to write something – anything, something that might be universally understood, something that gives air to a thought, an emotion – something in my internal or external world. scraps of melodies, bass line roots, ideas only until i might make them airborne.

mayhem steals my imagination and lifts it past the stuff-of-the-day. it pokes and prods me, not allowing for passivity, foisting ideas and snippets of muse upon me.

it’s a bazillion seeds in a dandelion meadow, a bazillion pianos, a bazillion pencils and pads, a bazillion brushes and a bazillion paint pots.

a mayhem of bazillions.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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

today i am 65 and this is my future.

it is full of seeds, full of possibility, full of tomorrows.

and it will all spin and float and whirligig – just like these maple seedpods.

though wrinklier now than in last spring or last summer – and, really, ever more wrinkly – these samaras are ever viable and will coax saplings from the ground once they disperse. with big breezes at their backs, the winds of change, the tug of relevance, in fields of gold and forests of native plants. though they have been dormant, though they haven’t germinated for months or even years, they remain alive.

alive.

resilient.

for placing samaras in a bowl of water, it is the seedpods that sink that have seeds likely to germinate. the others – the ones floating – are less likely, though sometimes it simply takes a little soak in warm water, a little good soil and a continued cold blast of air for some time – a bit of fallow – that will draw out the remaining life.

it’s funny. you’d think that the test for a maple seed would be it if floats in water – floating – the ability to rise above that which wishes to drown you. but the real test – for the likely viability of a maple seed – is to hope that it sinks. clearly, maple seeds hold their breath.

and then, the seeds breathe. out of the bottom of the bowl in which they have sunk. and the seeds sprout. even from the trauma they have endured, the inertia they have tolerated. and the seeds grow big strong maple trees, even though buckthorn and other toxic invasives would prefer them stifled. the maples withstand, persist, ride it all out.

so – for those of you out there who are thinking 65 is run-roughshod-over, washed-up, put-out-to-pasture, tested by toxins, no-longer-relevant, done – i have some news.

some good news.

it is the steadfastness of a drowned seedpod.

or, in the case of a wrinkled-up-old-floater, just a little warm water, a little good soil, a little cold fallow and then, a little sun.

either way, watch out. 65 is only the beginning.

*****

THAT MORNING SOMEDAY from BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL ©️ 1996 kerri sherwood

IN A SPLIT SECOND from AS SURE AS THE SUN ©️ 2002 kerri sherwood — PLEASE NOTE: This song is not “jazz” nor is any part of its copyright or publishing rights owned by Rumblefish.

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ready to burst. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

they seem ready to burst. seeds perched on the starting line, waiting for the right wind to pick them up and scatter them. they have gathered energy – all along – soaking in the winter sun, dried by cold breezes, clinging to the safety of their stalky stem. and now – it’s time soon – to release – to go forth – to spread their fluffy seeds. and, in their own way, they will be heard.

this is not unlike many initiatives. times where people work tirelessly, gather information, research and sort in the fallow times, soak in rare moments of rest, waiting for the time to burst. and then, the marketing campaign hits the market, the album is released, the gallery opens its doors, the ballet has an opening, the law is introduced for passage and enactment, the hearing starts.

so many seeds gathered in one giant fluffball, waiting. though uncertain about their future – uncertain about whether they have stoked enough energy, soaked up enough sun, gathered enough wind in their seed-wings – uncertain about success or failure – they wait. ready to burst.

“hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. you wait and watch and work: you don’t give up.” (anne lamott)

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

GREET THE DAY mixed media 48″ x 48″

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the tipping point. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

and all the wishes in the whole wide world gather together. and they wait in the queen anne’s lace, sipping fine champagne and eating bonbons. they wait for their moments, individually and together. every-every queen anne’s lace pod. they wait for the tipping point.

and one day – in the middle of saunas and steambaths, luxurious manis and pedis, chamber orchestras playing taylor swift, candles and lavender pillows, crystal glassware topped off with port – the sun and the moon having risen and fallen many, many times – the wishes release into the world on new morning rays and seeds go every-everywhere.

and they drift and soar and look down from the jetstream at all the people.

and they land. at the feet of every-everyone.

we just need bend down and pick them up.

*****

THAT MORNING SOMEDAY from THE BEST SO FAR ©️ 1995, 1999 kerri sherwood

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seeds. [two artists tuesday]

and the beautiful flower – with tiny white petals – its seeds were ripening. slowly, it began to wrap its inflorescence in, protecting. and the tiny bird’s-nest-shape remained, wound around, parenting, holding dear until the dried seeds, ready, release and go off into the world.

nature repeats itself. its stories – from one species to the next, one genus to the next – seem inordinately similar.

we – now adults – have left our own green-bird’s-nest years ago. it was a haven of sorts, but only for a time, as we grew. and then, suddenly, we are out and about in the world, riding the jet stream, surfing the tide, subjected to scorching sun and bitter cold. we trust the world to carry us safely. we are innocent seeds.

we learn – in different stages of our growth – that though we are held in unconditional love by some, there are others who will not tend us gently. we begin to discern the difference. we choose those who support us, whose inflorescent arms wrap us lightly, tenderly. we are buoyed, encouraged, picked up, bolstered by these arms. the others – the ones who aim to dilute, push down, disempower – they are loud voices – righteous and suffocating and dispiriting.

but – amidst either – we are still seeds as we continue on, other seeds also on this way.

and we try to remember to be as queen anne’s lace – once held gently and released – always with the knowledge that there are nurturing tiny and big blossoms out there, sharing the universe with us.

and we try to remember to be as queen anne’s lace – to, similarly, hold gently and release – with empathy our north star as we float and soar, celebrating every single other seed.

*****

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(composers pat alger and ralph murphy)

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