reverse threading

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Tag Archives: two artists living together


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don’t be a dreamdasher. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

a few yesterdays ago we were at the apple store, asking questions, learning, dreaming, stoking up on what new technology is “out there”, what we might eventually need to replace my no-longer-with-us hand-me-down 2008 crashed computer, this 2014 mini ipad, etc etc etc.

in a remarkable three hours or so – that we stood and talked to mike and then nate – we jogged our braincells into grokking new information, new terms, new device potentials and we entertained dancing with visions of artistic sugarplums. it was a joyous time, filled with others teaching us, punctuated by laughter.

toward the end of our visit at the store, a couple – a bit older than us – walked in. both were dressed to the nines (in direct comparison to our ripped jeans, flannel shirts and hiking sandals).

the woman walked over to the table with ipads and pointed to one as an-even-older-than-them-and-us saleswoman looked on. she asked what it was. the evenolder saleswoman – let’s just call her “dreamdasher” – immediately said this while body-guiding her away from the very tablet that was inviting in the customer: “ohhh. that’s verrrrrry expensive. it’s fancy. it’s an ipad proooo. it’s for proFESSionals.”

i was taken aback and stared at them. since we were just across the table from this debacle – about three feet away – i said aloud, “did you just hear that? what on earth was THAT??” our nate – who we have now adopted because he was young, bright, informative, told great stories, was pretty adorable with great hair and tolerated our three hours worth of information-gathering – said, “everyone has their own approach, i guess.”

i continued to rant – about assumptions, about dashing someone’s dreams, about ageism (which was funny because the salesperson was perhaps older than the customer!), about did-i-mention assumptions. who was to say that the customer wasn’t a professional? who was to say that the customer didn’t have goals to be a professional? who was to say that the customer wasn’t buying for someone else? i was flabbergasted that a woman (dreamdasher) would be so rude to a woman (dreamingperson). it is truly amazing that i did not walk over to dreamdasher and quietly ask her where her generosity went, how she could just dis-count dreamingperson’s curiosity and possible purchase, how she could – in the instants since that couple had walked in – put them in the tire-kicker category and body-guide them down the row of ipads to a lower level of tablet.

i went on and on in big red for a while too. it did not sit well with me.

because we were there to dream, to imagine. we did not look the part of people who could slap down some cash and purchase the row freaking row of tablets. we were clearly behind the eight ball on device capability and terminology. and yet nate – and mike – were generous and careful teachers, on point with what we described as possibilities, lifting us – and our visions – up, not trouncing on them.

wow.

still a little miffed, as you can see.

as human beings – particularly in a time when our very country seems to want to drown every floating dream – isn’t it our obligation to lift others up, to not make unfounded and discriminatory assumptions, to be kind? isn’t it our responsibility to feed others’ creativity, to encourage and bolster their life goals as much as we can, to hope for the best for each other? is it not in our nature to wish to elevate other humans, to boost them up, to animate their dreams, to delight in ambitions and initiatives of goodness? to make a difference in the lives of others – no matter their fortune? to say “i believe in you”? to be light in the dark?

dreamdashers be damned.

grateful to the dreamlifters around us.

*****

YOU MAKE A DIFFERENCE © 2003 kerri sherwood

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PS. if you are a “romper room” fan, please sing to the tune of the do-bee song:

“…don’t be a dreamdasher, don’t be a dreamdasher/do be a dreamlifter, do be a dreamlifter…..”


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what adults should be. [kerri’s blog on d.r. thursday]

the wood anemone is a “spring ephemeral“. the plant “dies back to the ground by mid-summer“. there is not a lot of time to be as delicately beautiful as anemone is.

so the anemone put on a fine show in their months of prime, the only months their performance is open. they waste no time fussing around, angsting over the circumstance of their sprouting – their place of origin, no time arranging every single thing to their benefit so as to live a grand life in the months of their lives.

instead, they shine. they grow – in community with every other plant and fungi, in and amongst the trees, fallen logs and dried leaves. they unfurl their five or six petals, their leaf whorl fragile, trembling in the breezes – this “wind flower” is standing vigil for spring.

they make the best of it.

and when their turn is done – when it is time for their last bow, their last quake in the wind, their petals slowly dropping one by one, their stamen no longer sheltering seed, their stalks withering with the sun – they quietly take leave and return to the ground to wait – for next spring.

anemone don’t wonder about their ascendancy, their import, their legacy. they do what it is they are here to do – providing early season nectar for pollinators, preventing erosion by retaining soil moisture.

their herald of spring, their succumb to summer’s hot sun – part of the greater plan. their job fits right in symbiotically with the rest. they do not abdicate to other wildflowers what is theirs to do; neither do they overreach, trouncing all the other wildflowers in their midst.

they are what adults should be. adult humans, that is.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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there are days. [kerri’s blog on flawed wednesday]

there are days. and on those days – even in spring’s wild-child inconsistency – we sit on the deck and look to the sky. because i have had the good fortune of thirty-seven years of that very view, it does what it needs to do…it soothes and centers and takes everything down a notch.

because what glenn kirschner said in early april is right: “if you’re not jaded, you’re not paying attention.” the barrage of … stuff … going on in this country is truly unbelievable…the corruption rampant and ignored, the racism, xenophobia, misogyny, the hatred, discrimination and blatant disregard of the rule of law, the gross manipulation of control by the narcissistic administration, the grift in plain sight, the absolute apathy toward the populace and real-life-living….the list seems neverending, the country barreling into some kind of hellish, dystopian landscape of gluttony-first. yuck.

so we sit on the deck and look to the sky. and these very familiar trees – this particular well-loved quartet – slowly shift from winter to spring and, eventually, soon, summer. and i can feel the color green absorbed into me – life – living – breathing.

and so, for a few minutes we don’t talk about it all. we just sit, quietly.

but fran lebowitz is also right: “…[ ] allows people to express their racism and bigotry in a way that they haven’t been able to in quite a while and they really love him for that. it’s a shocking thing to realize people love their hatred more than they care about their own actual lives.”

and we know those people. they are in our families. they are in our friend groups. our workplaces. our communities. it is devastating, truly heart-breaking. and every single time i allow myself to think about the immense loss – the fact that this very administration – the same one that touts propagandized rhetoric of “family values” – has caused schisms of exponential size – rifts that will never be healed – in the families and communities of the very people they are supposed to be serving – it makes me feel ill. gut-punched kind of ill. sad beyond sad.

there will be many more days of sitting on the deck – at the end of days – particularly some days – when we will just look up – at these trees – at the sky.

and though there will be no answers coming from the sky, it will help.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this FLAWED WEDNESDAY

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pause for thought. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

white flowers in the forest. with delicate petals – like the wood anemone – or the three sweeping waxy petals of the great white trillium – these white flowers dotting the underbrush of the woods are stunning, really beautiful. these seemingly fragile white blooms in and amongst a landscape not quite green, a landscape still rummaging around, waiting for spring’s full chorus.

we stop sometimes – just to take it all in – past ourselves, our thoughts, our conversation, our footsteps on the dirt. it gives us pause and slows our breathing.

the landscape design is immaculate – perfection. downed trees, leaves naturally composting, the canopy towns of mayapples bursting up through the ground, enchanting purple phlox, flowering pear trees. it is a slice of heaven.

in these days – when mosteverysinglething we read in the news makes us despondent, it seems that we must balance out our equilibrium a bit. for us, as you already know, that is the trail. the dirt paths in our area help us thrive as we all live in the shade of the current political chaos and the wreckage of our democracy. tiny bits of dappled light get through, but the challenge is to still keep going, despite the vast amount of dark.

white trillium prefers shade. these exquisite blooms find their home to be best in part or full shade. they are slow-growing, but long-lived – a combination that seems to push back against threatening negative influences, that rises out of deep winter, that sustains despite the odds, that shines in beauty. trillium live in colonies, interdependent on all the shrubs, trees, composting soil, insects, bacteria and fungi around it. its brilliant star shines alongside those it shares space with, symbiotically life-sharing companions.

pause for thought. yes. it gives us pause for thought.

maybe we all need to be like white trillium.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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setting seed. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

tiny parachutes – white filament – catch the breeze and lift the seeds – about 200 of them or so – from their home – the head of the dandelion – scattering them about in the world. the dandelion plant is left behind to generate a new flower head, more seeds, more parachutes. it is not singularly connected to any of these. its job is to simply be prolific, to produce more flowers and, thus, more seeds which will germinate more plants. and the beat goes on.

i would not be a good dandelion. i could not be so disconnected, so cool-y aloof. it is not in my nature to let go so easily, to ride on the wings of apathy. my children could tell you differently. my thready connection with them hangs on, even with all their efforts at asserting their independence. my thready connection – sans parachute – will never cease. motherhood – as i experience it – is like that.

fistful of dandelions is now kind of an old song – recorded in 1999 – which is 27 years ago. i hesitated a moment before i sent it to a newer friend – someone who i doubted had ever heard any of my music. i wasn’t sure if it was the best song to send her way, since it is only the second vocal recorded professionally in the second phase of my artistry – the phase that started in 1995. i know – in my library – there are better-sung songs, better-sounding songs, better-written lyrics, better-performed tracks.

i sent it to her anyway.

because i have found that this song speaks to moms and she is a mom. because it was more raw – desperately honest – an earlier piece sort of buried on an instrumental album, whereas other vocals are more readily accessible, easier to peruse if you wish. because – maybe, hopefully, we’ll see if possibly – someday i may record others and, just as time keeps moving on, so does style and relatability and such.

and so i sent it to her.

i haven’t heard anything back, which is always a tad bit disconcerting for an artist – any artist. we all know that it is how a piece of music, of art, of writing hits another that gives it life, gives it lift, sets its parachutes in motion so that it might float and swing on a breeze, setting seed in yet another place, with other people, new gardens to receive it.

i bent way down on the trail to capture this particular dandelion. its job was not yet done – there were more seeds, more parachutes; there is more possibility.

the same is true of my children.

and i will hang back at the flower zone, in the garden, while they fly around the world seeking rich soil in which to experiment and grow, in which to continue to grow their own wings, those stunning kaleidoscope wings of color and texture and challenge and success and brilliant brilliance – those iridescent shimmers – a myriad of sheen – though invisible to the naked eye.

and i will be astounded.

“…it overwhelms me what i feel, this heart outside of mine/is walking in another person, in another life…”

*****

happy mother’s day.

*****

FISTFUL OF DANDELIONS ©1999 kerri sherwood

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oh, mourning dove. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

we don’t have a tv antenna anymore. this is our westneighbors’. we have the good fortune of being able to see the birds who choose it as a place to land, a place to rest, a place to view all that which is below them. though i understand that the tv antenna is “coming back” (much like paisley bell bottoms – which i, clearly, should have kept through the years…though the idea of those still fitting makes me grimace and roll my eyes and woops…i am off-trail, bushwhacking my way through my brain back to topic…..)

so…my point…tv antennas are coming back – though it is not necessarily in this form but more in the form of a powerful window leaf or indoor device or lower-profile rooftop doohickey, no longer a towering metal structure, more horizontal now than vertical.

nevertheless, there are many tall tv antennas in our neighborhood – simply because they were already there.

when ours fell down we were fortunate it did no harm and we had a tree guy come and clean it all up. at the time we were subscribed to the smallest cable package and, since then, we have considered cutting that as well. it is, after all, a wifi world these days.

when we take walks in our ‘hood we pass a few houses with solar panels. not as many as might be in a neighborhood with newer houses, but i suspect, as people choose to install a new roof, they might also install solar. in these days of high energy cost, it only makes sense. solar power, wind power, hydropower, geothermal power…all amazing, clean, responsible options for a planet struggling to support so many more people,

which clearly brings me – in this dot-to-dot brain of mine – once again – to the abhorrent devastation this administration is making of renewable energy in this country. the unparalleled gluttony of those in power now is absolutely decimating what is good for our planet earth. but they totally don’t care. and neither do those who continue to support this pathetic and backward set of so-called policies. there is no culpability for the environment; there is only money to be made. it’s disgusting. more on that tomorrow.

and so, the mourning dove sits on our westneighbor’s tv antenna, looking around, resting. the dove has no idea of what flies through my brain as i appreciate its perch on the roof. it has no idea of how admiring i am of its ability to be zen-like and coo in all circumstances. it has no idea how much peace it brings me – to just simply watch it sit on an old tv antenna.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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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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maypole dancing. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

wearing a traditional scandinavian jumper, i danced around the maypole. holding a ribbon tethered to the pole, i danced to and fro with other young girls also holding ribbons. it was an ancient spring festival – at an arboretum on the island – and my sweet momma happily got us involved in taking part in it.

may day – the first of may. it seems impossible that we are already at may. time has a way of zipping by while at the same time taking-its-sweet-time. langsam – slowww – one of the few german words i remember from six years of studying the language.

but the return of spring it is and we are both grateful for it, despite its exceedingly stormy arrival.

we wake in the morning even earlier now, the sun streams in on our quilt, the breeze through the open window. everything is greening…gorgeous new-green crayon tones against easter-egg blue sky…tiny buds bursting into leaves, stalks of peonies growing taller before our eyes. the aspen is filling out, the ferns are unfurling, the daylilies are daylilly-ing – they require no help whatsoever.

and the birds and squirrels and raccoons are taking full advantage of our zeal to keep the feeders full. they linger on the top of barney, on the top of the potting stand. they gather in the pine tree next to the birdbath, waiting turns at the water.

and we can hear the call of the cardinals – beautiful song punctuated by sharp chirps. they stick around during the winter; their presence is always reassuring…a sign from the universe reminding me that my sweet momma and poppo are nearby, just on the other side, having slipped from this dimension to the next.

we’ve sat on the back patio a few times now, on the back deck in the sun. we’ve watched these creatures of our yard, narrating for them as they move about. wanting a photo of the cardinal at the birdbath, perched on its side, getting a drink, i grabbed my phone. but i was, regretfully, too late and he took off as i snapped the picture.

it wasn’t until much later – hours, really – as i looked at my photos of the day when i saw this photograph, the cardinal taking off, flying away from the birdbath.

so much better than a static perch photo, the cardinal taking flight – its may dance – its own celebration of the arrival of spring, of renewal, of new life.

we sit in our adirondack chairs and plot out our spring. we talk of our gardens, of an annual flower or two we might choose, of the herbs and vegetables we will grow on our barnwood stand.

it is hard not to feel passion for our very earth watching it come back alive all around us. it is impossible not to take deep, cleansing breaths, to turn our faces to the sun. it is time – for all good things – to dance around the maypole, to take flight.

*****

TAKE FLIGHT © 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood

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bowing to time. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

“the white trout lily humbly bows on the forest floor. much like people, though on a different scale, their presence is ephemeral, fleeting. on sunny days, their petals will curl back, up, towards the sun; on shady days these small flowers may not even open. their simple beauty a mystery to the passerby, their faces shyly downward, they fill the underbrush on the side of the trail, dotting the landscape with fragile white blooms. i trust they are not concerned with the impact they make on the world nor do they wonder about their footprints once they are gone. they are simply there – love – dressed in white floral.” (from a post on august 26, 2021)

the tiny trout lily forest – as seen from the ground – stretching on and on, dotting through dry underbrush, the accumulation of fall and winter now giving it up to spring.

the day was stunning…warm, sunny, blue skies. a gift of a day, indeed. it was our first time back on our loop since we arrived home. it was time to process it all and that trail is one of our touchstones for processing. we wandered along the dirt path, talking, being silent, noting how this new season was transforming our woods.

when you travel to or through places where you are not known – where you are a stranger – there is a sense of humility. we immerse in little towns on back roads when we can, finding our way through someone else’s place, through a community of ‘others’ – those in the know about local customs, local gems, local folklore. we are just passersby – soon to be on our way somewhere else.

but we have discovered some of our favorite spots this way. we’ve found places to which we must return some day, places with which we have connected, places that seem magically aligned with us.

discovery is like that. our steps take us past the familiar, into the unknown, the mysterious.

as i got down on my knees to photograph the trout lily forest, i imagined being tiny and walking amongst the lilies. like walking in a city of towering buildings, anonymous to most.

this trail – so familiar – each twist and turn, the spots where we know there will be standing water, the spots where the sun bathes the path, the places where the scent of pine is strong. we are lucky to know this place.

it is not likely that hikers after us will wonder about our footprints. they will be intent on the awakening forest and the swollen river, on their own silence, on their own talk–talk.

but we were there.

and – again – i realize we are each just one of the trout lilies in the woods, just as fragile, just as ephemeral, bowing to time.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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stopping on the way. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

the woods are different out east. the rhododendron is en masse and the scratchy underbrush is minimal, so you can walk in the trees, weaving your way in and out of the stands of these tall towers.

we had a bit of time before the sun set to walk on this special retreat land, stretch our legs from roadtripping, sit on the balcony with a charcuterie we had prepared ahead of our drive, watch the sun go down.

it was peaceful and – truly – just what we needed. the wind sailing through the pine trees near us was soothing, the scent of spring in the allegheny-appalachian mountains would bring us down from the drone of the interstate. it was the perfect stopping ground.

our accommodations were simple and inexpensive – a small studio above a garage – but with a kitchen so we could warm up the dinner we brought with us and make breakfast in the morning. we were thrilled to have such a serene setting as we knew the next day would bring the hectic chaos of the city, the bridges and the cross-bronx-cross-island craziness.

early the next morning with our coffee we strategized about how calmly we would approach the traffic of the day. we took back roads to the interstate, learning a bit of how rural-mountain folks are living, wondering where the grocery store was, wondering what the roads are like in the dead of winter.

we hadn’t gone too far that morning when on the side of the road were two wild turkeys. just as we approached one turkey decided to take off and fly right in front of big red. i slammed on the brakes, determined not to hit this very-slow-to-get-momentum-flying creature right in front of my windshield, like a lumbering skyvan. thankfully, the turkey made it to the other side of the road safely and we continued on. i felt a bit shaken. but d looked up the significance of this large grounded creature – particularly when one flies right in front of your vehicle. a reminder of abundance, of courage, of tenacity, of openness and readiness – all these attributes of new beginnings and changes were positive trade-offs for the frightening close-up of a turkey in flight. we chose to adopt these meanings and i quietly thanked the turkey for the good omens.

we left behind the forests, sandstone outcroppings, striated vertical walls, and the mountains, trading it for the shore, forsythia, stands of woods, sand and bluffs. and though we didn’t wake up the next day in a sanctuary forest, we sipped our coffee watching the harbor, its water still, perfectly reflecting sailboats and skiffs moored, buoys out past the dock.

a different kind of peace, i felt like i had come home.

*****

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

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