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Tag Archives: surprise


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sweet potato sprouts. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

we are sweet potato fans. and it was in recent research we realized we had been storing our sweet potatoes incorrectly – in the fridge. no wonder they were going bad sooner than we expected. so we moved them (and the russets and the gold yukons and the vidalia onions and the garlic) to a hanging basket in the stairwell which seemed to exponentially lengthen the life of this store-bought produce.

and then there was this day.

david – laughing – said, “ya gotta go look at the sweet potato in the stairwell!”

to say that i was surprised was understating. hot pink shoots were growing out of our sweet potato…sweet raspberry-colored, tiny-leafed shoots of a plant…right there in the basket hanging over the stairs, over the bin with dogga treats, next to the angle-broom and the swiffer, adjacent to the bag-o-bags hook.

and a science experiment was born as, suddenly, we were farming sweet potato.

we put some good potting soil in a planter and – just guessing, with no research – we planted the entire sprouted sweet potato tuber in the dirt. we watered it and stood back.

now, we had no idea what to expect. we truly did feel like we were in junior high – with a science fair project report due in a few weeks.

instantly, i was back in ninth grade, typing my lab reports on thin erasable typing paper. i loved typing and used any excuse to type. my earth science teacher – everyone’s favorite – charlie – graded our lab reports on a check system. check, check-plus, check-plus-plus, check-minus. i pretty much always got a check-plus-plus because, well, that was the kind of diligent student i was. he never wrote any comments on my lab reports, which was disappointing, so i began to wonder if he was really reading them. i decided to experiment a bit. i started to include the words of nursery rhymes – randomly – in my lab reports. i kept getting check-plus or check-plus-plus and he never said a word, convincing me that any genius lab report i might have written had gone undetected. years later we crossed paths on some social media and i reached out, asking him if, perchance, he remembered me. his response was classic: “of course! you typed nursery rhymes in the middle of your lab reports. how could i forget you?” but i digress.

in just days our little sweet potato’s tiny leaves leafed out and it has begun a growth cycle that will force us to reckon with what to do next. we are considering a metal trough planter, but also recognize that there isn’t long enough for the sweet potatoes to develop into sweet potatoes. it is a conundrum. but a truly sweet (no pun intended) reminder of the amazing turns of life and growth and actualization.

in a time during which so much is grabbing at our attention, a country and people disappointing us beyond belief, more corruption than we can wrap our heads around, we are grateful for this hot pink attention-grabbing sweet potato slip.

“live life, my sweet potato,” my momma always told me. i think i feel some sprouts comin’ on.

*****

GRATEFUL © 2004 kerri sherwood

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blend-inners and stand-outers. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

it’s merely nuance. just the subtlety of shades, leaves begging for us to notice.

surrounded by meadows filled with wildflowers and a splendid array of color, these leaves are blend-inners, standing out only by their presence in size. so beautiful.

it’s like people, sort of. there are blend-inners and there are stand-outers. both are necessary in the balance of the meadow or the prairie.

the stand-outers are noisier, more assertive – colorful and obviously there, attracting attention, striding.

the blend-inners camouflage into the surroundings, quietly supporting efforts of others, tenaciously pursuing their own bliss, no wish to be flamboyant or noticed.

the surprising thing, however, is when – like this prairie dock plant – there is suddenly growth that is astounding. flower stems begin to shoot up skyward.

if you only passed by in early june you would not know this. you would assume that these broad leaves were in monochromatic zen with the rest of the meadow. you would assume that they would silently simply green their way through the season, other wildflowers growing up and around them, perhaps stifling them.

you would not know that later – just a little bit of time later – these seeming blend-inners would herald tall leafless stems – even as high as eight feet tall – sporting bright yellow daisy-like flowers. it becomes a towering plant, high above the rest, hardy and pretty much invincible. not so silent anymore.

you just can’t judge a book by its cover, can you?

*****

I DIDN’T KNOW from THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY ©️ 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood

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orange sherbet and milkweed. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

the orange sherbet sky is a stunning backdrop to most anything but the milkweed’s wisp is anything but most-anything.

we pass by and notice. we pay attention. texture and color and movement from the gentlest breeze – it is a photograph before it was a photograph. my job was simply to snap it.

our days are slower. we linger in not-knowing. we acknowledge time as it sneaks by. and the next week comes before any of us are ready, before it seems possible. even the milkweed is surprised.

we are learning lesson after lesson. that this is life: the things our fingertips touch, the scent on the wind, the view before us, the call of the black-capped chickadee, the ground under our feet. we are caught up by the impermanence of it all. we are realizing the folly in the gathering of stuff. we immerse in the river where there is no stratum. we feel the moment, without knowing the edges of next.

the orange sherbet sky doesn’t dawdle. color has another place to be. and as the sun drops below the horizon, the shadow-gaps fill in.

we stand with the milkweed in dusk, close, loitering in early night and, with gratitude and rest, ready for next.

*****

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there is no “just”. [d.r. thursday]

breck is leafing out now. tender chartreuse mini-leaves populate its small branches. we are not quite at put-away-the-winter-coat but we are definitely at hope-springs-eternal. leaves! surprise! spring. already! but it’s just an aspen. and it’s just budding.

no, there is no “just”.

i suppose surprise is exactly that – surprise. it is that which we are pleasantly startled by – like fragile leaves – or that which we are astonished by – or astounded by – or by which we are stunned into silence. the things we would not expect of nature, of others, of ourselves, of a community, of life itself – these things surprise us. and in the winter of surprise, the winter of fallout – no matter how long the season lasts for us – we find ourselves underground, sending out roots, trying to stabilize, to process, to center ourselves, to recuperate.

there are those who peripherally try to help. they try to encourage moving on, letting go. their words are often statements that start with “it’s just…”. it is hard to listen to another person when their first words minimize that which you are going through. i remind myself not to use this word – “just”. it’s like the word “fine” for me. neither here nor there, “fine” sits somewhere in the middle of the emotional spectrum, not committing to either side. “just” sits in alphabetical order to the right of “fine”and the left of “let go” and “move on”.

we brought breck home from the high mountains, a sapling, a tiny piece of that which we dearly love. the aspens quake up there – the slightest of breezes brings their song. it was 2017 and, in the way of not-knowing, we didn’t know what the future would hold for us or for breck or for the world. time has now gone by – six years of time – and we look back, both in awe and shuddering. it has not been “just” six years.

it’s been Six Years. and there is not likely one of us who – without pause – can say it “just” went by.

“accept. adjust. arise,” she said.

breck has withstood it all, accepting its new home, the new everyday details of its life. transplanting, drought, heavy rain, sleet, snow, freezing temperatures, heat indexes over 100. it has adjusted and adjusted. so have we.

now, breck’s buds have turned to chartreuse. not “just” green. instead, a brilliant shade of living. it’s rising-rising-rising.

and, i think, so am i.

*****

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astonished. [d.r. thursday]

nostalgia hits fast.

how many times i have stood in front of the gazebo in northport harbor…how many times i have sat on the steps, lost in thought or listening to the clinking of metal sails in the docks next to the park…how many times i’ve wandered in the harbor surrounded by the dreamy lights of the gazebo and old-fashioned sidewalk lampposts on the paths.

lake bluff brought it all back.

an absolutely beautiful display in the square drew us to it and we parked, even in freezing cold, to walk around a bit, take pictures and soak it all in. it wasn’t northport, but it was stunning and magical.

the wordpress prompt today reads: is your life today what you pictured a year ago?

are any of our lives today what we pictured a year ago?

the element of surprise … both ways.

at a time of year that always-always makes me miss my childhood home, both of my parents, our big stone fireplace, the luminaria lighting our neighborhood streets and groups of friends caroling around the blocks, hot cocoa and marshmallows, tinsel and krumkake, rum cake and eggnog, the delicious anticipation of opening gifts and the northport harbor gazebo radiant, its lights shimmering in the harbor, we find the little square in the middle of lake bluff. astonishing.

“instructions for living a life: pay attention. be astonished. tell about it.” (mary oliver)

*****

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read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY