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the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: two artists tuesday


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on dirt. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

this is the best place to think. it’s the best place to ponder, to wonder, to sort, or to just – simply – take one step after another. it’s the best place to be quiet and the best place to have conversation. we link arms. we walk. and walk. and walk. we can see why pct hikers keep on going. it is cleansing and powerful. and your body feels the world, your tactile connection with the universe, your feet on dirt.

in a moment i won’t easily forget, i recently had a chance to be forehead to forehead with a horse. we stood that way together for several minutes and i could feel his breath on my face. with both of us – boots and hooves on dirt – connected by touch, i could feel the rest of the universe gently holding space, woven in tapestry with us, close by. powerful moments.

particularly in these times, for more reasons than you will imagine, i am finding the reminder of this connection to the universe to be of comfort. particularly in these times, when there is little to comfort us here in this country, i am finding the reminder of this connection to the universe to be bigger than any story of our land – it overarches the evil intention of stories personal and of the populace. particularly in these times, with so little promise of goodness, so little accountability, so little compassion, so little attention to truth-telling, i am finding the reminder of this connection to the universe to be steadying.

i will keep my feet on the dusty dirt of the trail. i will take any chance to share forehead space with another living creature. i will remember how connected – interconnected – i am with this universe. i will draw hope from that.

*****

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

i couldn’t begin to guess how many times i have sat on that beach. i couldn’t begin to describe all the life i have navigated there, all the pondering i have pondered, all the sun and the snow and the rain, the early dawns, the inky skies i have shared with that place. in the mystery that connects you to certain places, it was always my go-to.

and the mystery continues.

we shared time with that beach again. profound time. time wherein i stood by the water’s edge talking to the universe. once again, feet in that sand, touching that water, eyes to that sky.

some of the benches just off the boardwalk have been there forever. the curve of the metal arm, the weather-worn wooden seat – familiar touchstones that date back and back. the seagulls diving, riding the waves, rising in air currents and dropping crabshells to the ground – their caws lodged in memory.

this is not the island’s finest. there are many beaches with less rocks, fewer shells, more shoreline, softer sand, less seaweed, stronger surf. but this is the one.

i left a piece of me – a free-to-be–crazy-with-potential–wildflower-growing piece – behind on this island.

and so i thought that maybe – just maybe – i could go put my feet on this very sand, touch this very water, drink in this very salt air to both reclaim that piece and set it free.

there was no drumroll, no hoopla, no folderol. there were no fireworks or lightning bolts.

as the wind became gusty and it got colder, i merely turned reluctantly away from the water’s edge.

he was waiting for me about halfway up the beach and he held me as i stood in that very sand under that very sun, taking it all in, grateful.

we walked arm in arm to the benches and sat on the oldest one.

it was a long time before we left.

but not before i wrote my name in the sand.

and not before i held her hand – that wildflower.

“i got you,” i told her.

*****

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grasshopper, grasshopper. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

jeffie used to use the term “grasshopper” a lot. not really understanding any reference, i always took it to be a term of affection.

in the middle of the middle of stuff we are in the middle of, we took a hike. we always see tiny grasshoppers on the dusty trail – hopping in just the last second and flying away – like small moths zipping past us.

but this day – in the middle of the middle of stuff we are in the middle of – there were Grasshoppers – capital G. never had we seen hoppers this big on any part of this lengthy trail. they didn’t just hop away upon feeling the vibrations of our feet on dirt. they stood their ground.

i bent down to share a few moments with this one. after communing with it, i urged it to jump off the beaten path, trying to save its life from zealous bikers also on trail.

for the first time, i looked up what jeffie’s “grasshopper” reference might be. and it all made sense, reading that kung fu (from the 70s tv series i never watched) used it – yes, affectionately – to convey to his students etc “a message of growth and learning”.

this differential grasshopper grinned at me as i bent down, posing for the camera. he turned and looked down the dusty gravel trail. and then he turned back to me for a few moments before i urged him on, away from potential danger.

“you got this,” he whispered. “keep going. you may feel small and it may feel bigger, but we both have abundant power. i can only go forward. you can jump with me.”

i heard him as he took off with a giant hop for the underbrush, “remember! leap!.”

today is a good day for grasshoppers.

*****

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attentively attentive. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

the headline on the catalog page read: don’t just go somewhere. be somewhere.

i lounged in the gravity chair on our deck and looked up. just beyond the peaked roof of our house, inbetween the pine tree and our westneighbor’s tv antenna, with the wire that stretches across our driveway stretched right through it, there it was:

the clouds had drawn the sun. exactly like i would have done it had i had big fat sidewalk chalk in my hand and i was drawing on the breezy jet-streamed canvas of the sky: an arc for the sun, rays coming from the hot center. it was obvious, clear, pretty doggone cool.

i grabbed the phone to take a picture and, before it disappeared as if someone had lifted the cellophane on a magic slate, drew it to d’s attention. we were both a tiny bit giddy at this small gift in the sky.

and that’s how i want to live. being somewhere. in each moment.

with all the horrific going on, it is not hard to wonder about time limits on presence.

so – in addition to paying attention, to drawing attention, to downright attentiveness attention to all of that horrific – i’m going to pay attention, draw attention, be downright attentively attentive to being here.

wherever here is at the moment.

*****

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rising mint. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

planted in a barnwood planter – one that is split in half where the top half balances on the bottom half – I have been tending this mint all summer. we have used it in suntea all through these months. it’s made a few appearances in quinoa tabouli. and then.

then – all of a sudden – it went dormant. the stems were leggy and leafless. it seemed done. i snipped it all back, tossing the dried stems behind the potting stand, and i resolved to buy mint for the remainder of the suntea season. and then.

then – all of sudden – there it was. a few new sprigs and a few more. yesterday, i picked mint for the fresh jug of tea and took a few pictures of the new lush green leaves.

petsitter ann had told us to beware – that the mint would take over the garden were we to plant it in the ground. so we heeded her advice and chose this planter instead. i’ve already decided it will be the mint planter again next year. because we will surely need mint again next year.

we’ll need it so that we can watch its zealous growth – bursting from the very beginning, right out of the nursery pot.

we’ll need it for our cool tea, for our tabouli, for the zucchini parmesan pasta dish.

we’ll need it to gauge the hot sun and the water levels of our other plants – it responds to changes in weather and moisture, giving us good indicators for tending our other herbs as well.

we’ll need it to watch firsthand something that, well, just isn’t very fussy about stuff.

and we’ll need it to remind ourselves of the regenerative power of spirit – that even if something seems passé, even if something seems dried-up – done – out-of-season – even if something seems downright irrelevant – there is still an ever-lit pilot light.

the mint will rise again.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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28 square feet. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

this brings me joy – stepping into this tiny little corner garden. each year it has been a place to wonder, to learn, to dream, to envision bounty. tiny as it is, it is a place of abundance and, even as autumn falls, i cherish its every bit of 28 square feet.

the parsley and the basil are still producing – they graced our homemade tomato soup last night. there are a few jalapeños left, still growing. the dill has dulled; the mint has faded. the cilantro has bolted time and again, despite my best efforts to convince it otherwise. the cherry tomatoes are ripening on the vine and the rosemary is a small tree. i suspect the rosemary will make its way inside for the winter. it all makes me think of next year’s planting – adding sweet potatoes in planters, more tomatoes, maybe a few other vegetables. it’s all been a lesson in embracing something new. it is a tiny space of zen.

we are considering some changes as we look around our house. in the cleaning-out mode, less and less is necessary. clearing away a child’s desk, a lateral file, unused appliances or electronics…it’s all fodder for the space we need – particularly in these times – for cherished quiet, for serenity. i am finding there is a direct connection between the more clear space and the more breath. it will take some time, as it has taken decades to acquire so many things. but we have time and, i believe, we have the wherewithal to go through our house, room by room, and invite in a sagefilled peace.

it’s really all about intention. though we do not live in a vast home and are not surrounded by vast acreage, we bring an intention to our home that is purposeful. as we move from room to room, slowly parsing out the unnecessary from the necessary or the wanteds, slowly replacing items with other items or replacing items with air-and-space, we tend to how it feels. we want to create a space in which we feel comforted, supported, valued. we want to create a space in which others feel comforted, supported, valued. we want a place filled with soul and acceptance of the inbetween moments in all of life.

today we’ll make a batch of pesto. as i look at the basil plants, i figure it will likely be the last batch this season. oh, there will be a bit for our homemade margherita pizzas, but not in real quantity. so we’ll go slow. snipping and rinsing, chopping and grating. we’ll talk about our garden – truly, for the umpteenth time. we’ll relish the pungent aroma of freshly-picked basil in the house.

and we’ll stand in the kitchen – looking at each other – with tears in our eyes – astonished at our good fortune.

*****

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little. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

we had all but given up.

pretty much each year – for years – we have had a frog in our pond out back.

but this year there was simply nothing.

to say we were disappointed would understate how much these frogs have meant to us. we were pretty sad and wondered if we had done something that had inhibited a frog from choosing our tiny pond as a summer home.

until a few days ago.

d had seen a glimpse of green hopping in the water a few days prior, but we could not tiptoe up to the pond quietly enough to see it sunning on a rock or watching the world go by, tucked into a nook or cranny. we thought it was simply a momentary visit.

on thursday, though, we had a lucky day. and, as we stood quietly at the side of our pond, scouring the edges for a sighting of a frog, there he was.

little.

we named him “little” not at all having to do with his import to us, but because he seemed one of the smallest frogs to have lived in our pond.

you would have thought we had found gold coins hidden in the rocks of our water feature – our excitement was off the charts.

and – because every frog needs a theme song – i could instantly hear his in my head (sung to the tune of sugar, sugar by the archies): little – ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba/ oh, little little ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba/ you are our tiny frog/ and you got us hop-hoppin. (etc etc etc)

each year has brought a different reason to look for the meaning of a frog’s visit in our personal world. each year the resilience and transformation, renewal and abundance messages have been positive bits of symbolism for us and have made us feel that grace has dropped in for a visit.

this year is no different. little’s appearance has been like a single candle lit in a dark night – a warm glow, a talisman for reflection and hope.

we never know how long the frog will stay. but we do know that just making an appearance is a gift. for our small pond – in the middle of other suburban yards of grass and gardens – is maybe 18 square feet – and it seems fortuitous that a tiny frog would even find it.

but maybe somewhere in frogland there is a list…and frogs can check it – like airbnb – to see where they might find a little pond they can call their own. or maybe where it is they may be named and doted upon. or maybe where it is they might get their own theme song.

we hope little hangs around for a while.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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nonetheless. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

mid 80s, late 80s, the 90s – it was a thing. posies of dried flowers everywhere you could find a spot. on indoor trellises, tucked into cornices, hooked onto doors, gathered in bowls, in wreaths and vases and garlands, in frames and potpourri vessels. so many dried flowers.

and it wasn’t that they weren’t beautiful. next to the quilts on quilt racks and the doilies on the side tables, old silverware windchimes, painted wooden tchotchkes and cross-stitch anything, the dried flowers complimented the style of the times – this nod to nostalgic country-ish.

there was a day – years ago – when, having been surrounded by dried flowers for decades, i literally walked around my home with a big garbage bag and tossed all the dried flowers i had managed to hang, tuck, hook, trellis, gather, weave, drape, frame or potpourri-mix. it – this decorating obsession with things-dried – was suddenly done.

(now, to be fair, currently, there’s a posy of lavender from our garden in a small glass milk pitcher and a couple reeds from a hike. oh, and a few hydrangea from out front. of course, there are two big branches in our house now, not to mention driftwood from long island and an aspen log from the forest in breckenridge, but, in essence…for the most part…in theory and almost-all-application, the dried-flower-dust-accumulator period is over.)

instead, as we hike along the river and in the woods and walk in the ‘hood, we watch the flowers of the meadows and the gardens changing. their waning beauty draws me in – even more than their mid-summer blossom. there is something about the fading flower, something about the button left after the petals fall, something about the curve of the wilting coneflower or a tired black-eyed susan, the almost-fluffless dandelion, the loves-me-loves-me-not petal-less daisy. i stop and linger with them, always curious how graceful it is they go into fallow, this period of rest, how they so readily give over to this change in appearance when humans seem to resist so vehemently any visible aging.

the 1980s/1990s dried-flower-hanger/tucker/gatherer in me rises as i admire these beautiful nods to autumn’s arrival. but i leave the flowers in the meadow, in the garden, in the marsh next to the river, in the woods.

and, instead, i carry their beauty – and the moments i was witness to it – with me, knowing that diminished beauty is – nonetheless – beautiful.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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keep your eyes open. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

back in the day i spent a lot of time on the sidelines of soccer fields, baseball diamonds, basketball courts, tennis courts. under fleece blankets and roasting in the sun, i have listened to coaches coaching and parents of team members instruction-yelling. i have sat on bleachers and watched lessons and warmups and scrimmages and many, many games and tournaments and matches. i have attempted – poorly, i might add – my hand at golf and volleyball, tennis and ping-pong – some quite limited times – and have been instructed with good intention – but with little prowess for application.

the things that i have heard – over and over – and over and over – is to keep your eyes open, to keep your eyes on the ball.

it makes sense. not only will it help in balance, in appropriate contact with the ball, in prediction of the ball’s trajectory, it keeps you in the game. it’s essential.

in these times – in this country – it would seem the same: to keep your eyes open, to keep your eyes on the ball.

it also seems utterly impossible to do – if you are relying entirely on mainstream – legacy – media. for they, in many ways, have dropped the proverbial ball. they are languaging these days of chaos in milder terms than should be tolerated. they are minimizing and normalizing. it is leaving the reds in red-land where they are fed conspiracy after conspiracy, lie after lie. it is leaving the blues in blue-land where the words describing the actions and intentions of the current administration are sorely lacking in descriptors that even begin to touch the peril in which this country finds itself.

if the course of ten years ago – and since – hadn’t already brought us to the place of question-asking, fact-checking, source-locating, detail-expounding, independent-media-watching/reading/listening, the horror of these days would have pushed us there.

we have encountered many who would just rather not. rather not know, rather not talk about it, rather not deal with it, rather not.

we are simply keeping our eyes on the ball. it will help keep us in balance, in appropriate contact with the game, in prediction of the trajectory.

anything else is the behavior of wishful thinking, the behavior of ostriches, the behavior of people who don’t care what happens to this country, its laws, its land, or its people.

being an informed citizen is essential. let’s keep our eyes open.

*****

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merely steps away. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

the breeze was decidedly heavenly, refreshing, a breath of fresh air.

it had been a while.

this summer – clearly in the midst of changing climate – has been a doozy. hot and humid and downright uncomfortable. it used to be that we’d ponder whether or not to place the window air conditioner units in the windows. we’d fuss and debate and look at the extended weather forecast, trying to decide if we could suffer through a few days or a week of sticky, knowing that wisconsin would reward us with a breezy sweep-through back into exceptional summer weather.

not this year.

it literally felt like it – the sticky – arrived. and never left. every morning i’d open the back door, step out on the deck and say aloud, “it smells like florida.” the fact that it also felt like florida made me want to get my money back from the wisconsin-summer for which i’d signed up.

in these days i am much less tolerant of the heat. me and dogga. and even d. all three of us, dogga’s tongue hanging out and all of us panting – it’s not a pretty picture. and so, we (the plural we, though it is most definitely the singular d) installed the window air conditioners. and, with WE-energies’-exponentially-rising-costs and caution to the wind, we ran them.

and then.

then the breeze shifted.

finally.

and, with great flip-flop glee, we started back walking our long ‘hood walks.

because merely steps away is this great big beautiful (oh, wait! i simply cannot use those words in that order anymore)…..merely steps away is this vast, stunning lake.

we feel lucky every time we walk along its edge. we feel lucky as the breeze wraps us in cool. we feel lucky at the harbor, at the beach, on the rocks, at the historic beachhouse where everyone gathered after our wedding. merely steps away is this reminder to breathe.

and so we stand there, staring at this lake like an old friend we’ve known for decades. and, just like people – filled with stories and layers and grief and bliss and tenderness and churning and color and monochrome – it’s always familiar and always an enigma – both.

the sun dipped below the west horizon, amping up the ombré of the east.

and arm in arm we walked home.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this TWO ARTISTS TUESDAY

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