reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: two artists making stuff for humans


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

and there is nothing about sunflowers most people don’t love. a brilliant statement, profound color, turned to the sun, following the sun, seeking to be nourished, supersized flowers that are hard to miss.

they stood proudly in a tall vase on our dining room table for a week – cheering us on, a direct line to the sun’s energy, the love of the universe. they didn’t try hard – they were divine without trying.

and then, just as remarkable as in their standing, their reaching up-up, they began to bow. deep curves of thick stems turning down, toward the tabletop, the disk florets invisible, the yellow-orange ray flowers starting to brown and curl, green phyllaries twisting and lifting away from the back of the disks. a graceful bow, with no effort to resist succumbing to this bending down.

there are most definitely times that we would be served well to stop standing, to stop reaching, and instead to bow down, to lower our constantly-looking-forward gaze and, instead, to rest in a moment of humility, a moment of be-here-now, a moment of gratitude.

maybe this is what makes sunflowers so mighty. they instinctively know that there will be balance. they know that they will not always be tall and upright, gorgeous and fresh, colorful and crisp. they know that they will someday be arched over, wrinkly, no longer striving to be lofty. that they will arc on their strong stalk and they will humbly move into next. they know this wilting is no less important than blooming, for it is in wilting that seeds are released and a new lifecycle is possible. they know both are ever-relevant.

right now we are standing in vases, our faces to the sun. we are soaking up whatever energy we can grasp. we are aware that time flies by on the whisper of the jet stream, on the spinning-spinning of the earth’s axis.

soon, we begin to bow, ever so slightly. we lean a bit on the next big blossom of disks and ray-petals. we wrinkle and wobble in place, lowering our gaze to take in those around us. and then, after much time has passed in the sun, we bow in appreciation. there will be many more.

and we know we have made a mark in our blooming and in our wilting. for we, too, are mighty sunflowers.

*****

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

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if i was the rain. [two artists tuesday]

it was torrential. for hours. we didn’t know it, but we weren’t the only ones having issues. all over our town, there was flooding. streets, houses, basements, the water was incessant and drainage wasn’t keeping up.

it’s not like we don’t need rain. we do. but the intense downpours aren’t helpful. residents ended up without power, with too much water and without water (ironically).

this is a time of intensity. it seems that every weather system, every environmental concern, brings an amped-up version of itself. it’s not just a little windy. it’s a derecho. it’s not just a bit dry. it’s on fire. it’s not just a soft rain. it’s a deluge. it’s not just a storm. it’s historic. it’s not just endangered. it’s extinction.

and we’re not the only ones.

right after we chose this image for our blogposts, i started humming lowen and navarro’s “if i was the rain“, an utterly debilitatingly beautiful song.

and so i think about how it would be – to be the rain.

“if i was the rain… i’d fall between the fireflies; i’d never dampen any light.”

yes. how i’d be careful not to dim the brilliance of others.

“i’d strike a chord within each heart, wherever they were torn apart. and if that helped them heal themselves, maybe we’d find out where forgiveness starts.”

yes. how i’d be aware of washing away old hurts, bringing a flowing river to all.

“if i was the rain, i’d choose forever to remain. i’d add a sparkle to the night and marvel at the morning bright.”

yes. how ever-present, a single drop of rain. ever-mindful of vast goodness, of perspective, of eternal gratitude.

“if i was the rain i’d bless each blossom to unfold and i’d turn each one of them to gold.”

yes. how to feed every last thing with the best nourishment, water to grow, dreams to flourish. nurturing. giving to. not taking from.

“if i was the rain. if i was the rain.”

but i’m not. and there are changes happening. and the weather is intensifying. and we – as humans on this good earth – have choices to make.

the things we will decide will affect the rain. and the rain will affect us.

and we’re not the only ones.

“when we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.” (john muir)

and then, eric lowen performed it one last time, “if i was the rain, if i was the rain.”

and i can’t help but wonder.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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love, love, love. [merely-a-thought monday]

when i was in sunday school – decades ago – we sang a song with these lyrics: “love, love, love. that’s what it’s all about. cause god loves us, we love each other. mother, father, sister, brother. everybody sing and shout. cause that’s what it’s all about. it’s about love, love, love. it’s about love, love, love.”

and then, somewhere along the way, it seems that the rules changed. and suddenly, it wasn’t all about love. it – on the contrary – became about the parameters put on love. it became about who people identify as and who people love. it became about valuing only male-female love. it became about quashing people’s gender identification. it became about ancient, close-minded, patriarchal interpretations. it became about bigotry. and the sunday school song takes on a different meaning.

but we know that nothing immensely beautiful, nothing meaningful or of import has come from limitations. it is not the ostrich with its head in the sand who can feel the dawn of a new day on its face. it is not the people who do no true research, who do not ask questions, who do not ponder the possible; these same folks who, if they instead would have respectful consideration of others, could find that we all can be spokes-living-better-together.

one of the things i really loved about my sweet momma was her willingness – her desire – to learn new things. even in her nineties, she tried to stay current, to stay informed. if she didn’t understand something, she’d ask questions or she’d look it up. she stayed open, non-judgemental. she hoped for happiness, love, freedom, peace for everyone – despite their race, ethnicity, gender identity, religion, sexual orientation, socioeconomic status. she did not make broad sweeping statements dissing any group of people. she held onto her belief that everyone deserves “to thine own self be true”. i’m guessing she would agree with ruth bader ginsburg, “we will all profit from a more diverse, inclusive society, understanding, accommodating, even celebrating our differences, while pulling together for the common good.”

the day my beloved son came out to me, i rejoiced in his freedom. all i really wanted for him – that day and every day since – was to love and be loved by his partner, working together with mutual respect, loyalty, understanding, generosity, admiration, affection, support. it is the same for my beloved daughter in her love relationships. i merely birthed them and then, in the briefest time that flew by, they became adults, out in the world. and with them, they took the knowledge that they had freedom to be who they are, knowing – without a doubt – i love them.

i can’t imagine poking at a group of people – including, and particularly, an all-embracing LGBTQIA+ community of beautiful people. lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, intersex, asexual: their individual and precious lives are not mine to live, nor mine to decide, nor mine to undermine.

we are the same. remember the sunday school song? or are there limitations to these lyrics? in what faith is love not love?

we purchased a new yard sign. half of the proceeds go to PRIDE.

*****

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

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TLC. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

so right now we have harvested four tomatoes. i know that four tomatoes does not a stockpot of marinara sauce make. but these four tomatoes count and later today we will place them on a special plate and have them with our lunch, delicious-homegrown-bite by delicious-homegrown-bite.

our basil and flat-leaf oregano and rosemary have gone to town and are a delight to use in recipes. our mint insists on flowering and is kind of spindly. (yes, yes, i know the flowering part sort of causes this, but no amount of cutting back seems to help.) and our tomato plant – well, despite our best efforts at loving this little potting stand garden to fruition, it’s eking out very few tomatoes. that’s ok. we still are in awe of the whole process, and watch, in utter happiness, as our little garden grows.

there’s a guy on youtube who is hiking the colorado trail. more than once we have heard his mantra: what goes around, comes around. he is in the practice of doing good deeds for others, on the trail and off. and he recognizes each time someone does something for him, or the universe tilts in his favor. i’m betting he would love our little garden too. not necessarily for its tomato and herb yield, but because of the tender loving care we are putting into it and the joy it is bringing us.

i’m thinking that’s true of most things you tenderly and lovingly care for.

it’s not the marinara sauce that matters.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

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in the turning. [d.r. thursday]

we passed the stand of coneflowers – so beautiful in waning as summer wanes – the passage of time barely a whisper, yet it is august and a new season will soon be upon us. the side of the trail – the underbrush – told stories of summer’s heat, of the successful eradication of invasives, of new growth, of the turning – always the turning.

we walked back to where we had parked big red, this old truck that has now passed through twenty-five years of turning. barely seventy-thousand miles on its odometer, it seems happy to be driven, to have adventures, to be out and about.

we have had big red for the last four years since columbus gifted it to us. unable to drive any longer, he passed it to david and we promised to care for it as he had. every single time we have driven it, we have wondered why the rattle…loud rattle…from both sides of the truck. we determined it was the running boards. the bolts were tight but the metal steps shook and rattled, nonetheless.

so, on this day of waning time and everyone and everything getting older, we decided to bring it somewhere to see if we could possibly make a difference in the ridiculously loud sound and jarring shake the running boards were causing. we don’t know what put us over the edge this particular day. we wondered how columbus put up with this for the first 60,000 miles. for me, in particular, anything that has any kind of rhythm – and then is juxtaposed with a different rhythm close by – say, on the other side of the vehicle – simultaneously(!) – makes me crazy. it’s torture! let’s just say it interrupted the ride and ford’s slogan “go further” sounded less and less appealing. i mean, we are “ford tough” but c’mon…!

we googled who to take it to. picked a shop. and drove to it, a tiny bit fearful of the price tag of this fix. particularly right now. we knew we could get an estimate and walk away, if need be. what’s a little rattle for a little longer?

the guys at line-x took maybe 75 seconds to decide what to do and scheduled us for later in the week. merely thirty minutes after they began to install a steel anchor bar on each running board, our problem had disappeared.

because we have hyped-up sound and muscle memory – reinforced by four years of sound and bouncing, we could both easily imagine the noise and the jarring we were now missing. big red drove smoothly down the street, still driving like a big old ford f150 – in a big ole truck kind of way – but minus the runningboard imax symphony.

surprisingly, it was an easier and less costly fix than we had imagined.

i suppose as we watch other things around us age and wane – our house, littlebabyscion, our fridge, our stove, this very laptop, my iphone, our bodies (ouch!) – this would be a good lesson to remember.

no less beautiful, no less a coneflower, the turning just requires a little care.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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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.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

(composers pat alger and ralph murphy)

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one more step. [merely-a-thought monday]

mount everest wisdom. mark whetu, professional guide – passionately speaking about the mountain – maintaining, “one more step. you can always make one more step.”

it is without any doubt that i can say i will not be climbing everest (or, for that matter, k2 or annapurna et al). i have watched enough video footage to know that it would not be possible for me to summit. i don’t feel badly about that. i know that there are other challenges i will take on, other summits to step to. and those will take remembering the same mantra “one more step” with the same bravery.

we each have our everests, himalayan mountain peaks up close and personal. some of them are indeed adventures – the stuff we try during time away from work, on vacations near and far. some of them are health issues – and we work toward healthy. some of them are traumas we have lived through – and we, as survivors, work on healing, a little bit at a time. some of them are learning challenges we place before ourselves – to learn a language, to learn to dance, to learn to build, to learn the piano. some of them are more philosophical – a chance to explore and try to understand social and political issues, to dissect and parse out and ask questions, have discourse and form opinions based on true information. some of them are more existential – to sort out how we belong in the world, no small feat.

regardless, there is no way ‘there’ from ‘here’ without taking steps.

“on the road of experience
i’m trying to find my own way
sometimes i wish that i could fly away
when i think that i’m moving
suddenly things stand still
i’m afraid ’cause i think they always will“

(john denver – looking for space)

mark was on everest. in an excruciatingly difficult situation, he speaks to the standing-stillness of choice. he knows that after the way up, the way down is an imperative for survival. he knows the only way there – either way – is one step at a time.

it’s the only way no matter what. no matter the challenge, no matter the summit. one baby step at a time.

*****

BABY STEPS from RIGHT NOW ©️ 2010 kerri sherwood

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what i need. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

i am a homebody. i truly love home.

but – juxtaposed on the same life-wave-riding surfboard – i love to get away. i love roadtrips and adventure, exploring backroads, immersing in new places. though i am fed noticing the extraordinary in the familiar, i thrive on images of the unfamiliar. more than once i have cried entering a canyon or at mountain-range first glimpse or surrounded by the scent of a lodgepole pine forest or the quiet of an empty trail or the quaking of aspen leaves.

so i yearn for these places – the ones we have been to and have loved and the ones we dream about.

i’m not high-maintenance when it comes to vacations. i’m not a resort-type or a cruise-type, not a disney-type or an amusement-park-type. i don’t need all-inclusive or my bed turned-down. i don’t need all-you-can-eat-any-time-of-day-or-night. i don’t need fancy or plush or luxurious. i definitely don’t need contrived.

it’s pretty simple. what i do need – is a little or big getaway. short distance, long distance. time to leave, see new things, experience new places, feel the sun from a different latitude or longitude. and then time to go home and feel the hygge that is ever-present back here, the moments that go by perhaps a little underappreciated, to feel the here and now without regret or longing, a chance to revive my homebody-ness.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

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fly. [k.s. friday]

the seagull looked at me furtively, side-eyed. he acted like i just wasn’t there, stepping along the harbor channel wall at his own pace, seemingly not too nervous about my presence.

writing, i’m holding my weathered copy of jonathan livingston seagull in my hand. jonathan thrived. he left the traditional flock of gulls so that he could fly, soaring higher than he had ever soared. he was an outlier but was kind and loving, generous with the skills he learned.

i’m thinking he was as much an artist as those of us who are artists.

ever since, well, forever, i have had a thing about seagulls. i have a seagull collection in a box in the basement. in the 70s, it was a popular tchotchke – a plaster or wood base that looked like a piling or rocks or shoreline with a thin metal piece atop which was a seagull. sold in every beachfront town, i was – back then – a willing buyer. i had seagulls everywhere in my room. they represented the beach for me – my winter/spring/summer/fall sanctuary. and then i read richard bach’s book. and i was hooked. it resonated with me back then, this story of breaking away, hopefulness, dreaming, accomplishing. i was 18 and i was a jonathan-livingston-seagull.

my soaring seagull days ended abruptly at 19.

but in these days now – as i walk the lake michigan beach or hear the gulls as they fly overhead our house – i am reminded. the caw of the gull is reassuring and, as i gaze up watching them swoop and soar, i feel vestiges of the surf – the sound and the ocean from long ago. tide out. tide in.

i walked along the channel and, in parallel lines, the gull started to step along the wall. and then he stopped, put both feet firmly on the cement.

and, still looking at me sideways, whispered, “don’t forget you know how to fly.”

*****

TAKE FLIGHT ©️ 1997 & 2000 kerri sherwood

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forest periscope. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

there are metaphoric moments like this.

you are surrounded by the forest – dense, unyielding, a bit dark. though there are paths, they are still shadowed by big trees, overgrowth that doesn’t seem to allow in the light. and then – as you are plodding on and on, making an effort to maintain your equilibrium, to stay in center, you come to the tiniest clearing. and, looking up, there is sky. clear blue sky.

a periscope to the universe.

and suddenly, your worries and angsts, your doubts, your lost road are scaled down, lessened to tiny pinpricks of stars, unseen in the day-sky, though ever-there, allayed in the bluest-blue, soothing hope in the periscope, a reminder of perspective and time and expanse and right now.

and you stand, with all the creatures in the forest, and look up – for minutes and minutes unblinking until you are slightly dizzy from your stillness. and you lower your head, stretching your neck, your gaze-to-the-heavens broken.

but you are moved. you are reminded of your tiny-ness in the vastness. you remember you are part of this universe and, that just as you are not alone in the light that the leaf-periscope offers, you are not alone in the dark either.

you breathe. a deep breath. a prayer. a gratitude.

and you walk on in the forest, knowing, for certain, that you will find natural clearings with big spaces of light. knowing, too, that curling your hand into itself and peering through – like a hand-periscope – you can focus on smaller bits of the forest and within it, find the bits of light between the leaves.

*****

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

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