reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: winter to spring


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in fields of flowers. [kerri’s blog on merely-a-thought monday]

and soon, the world around us will explode with flowers. and spring ephemerals will rise out of thawing ground. crocus follow on the heels of earliest rising snowdrops. and then daffodils and tulips and maybe even hyacinths sneak into view. skunk cabbage joins the fray of the dance and trilliums send up their periscope stalks. jack-in-the-pulpit stands righteously in the savanna underbrush, sharing energy with jill-in-the-pulpit. and the mayapples…those mayapples wait to burst their canopy umbrellas up, protecting their delicate white blossoms. all together, it is a community of the transitory, sharing space. all thorns are set aside to regale the world with beauty.

george told us on the trail that many, many – most, he ventured to guess – do not look about as they hike. he said that it is rare to see someone stop on the trail to really notice, to pay attention, to ponder. he was pleased to see us – two strangers – standing and photographing.

for us, it is most-of-the-time impossible to hike and not pay notice. but, i can tell you, it is very difficult to hike – and really, truly pay attention – if there is something heavy on our hearts. i would think it impossible to hike – and wander in the fields of flowers – if there are thorns in your heart.

as far as i know, thorns in your heart may preclude your seeing of any beauty at all. they may predispose you, color your view, cloud your eyes to what-really-is, ruin any chance of you experiencing the ephemerally blissful moments of this life.

because – in terms of this world, this universe – we are really more like spring flowers than any other. we emerge and are quickly fading. we are gifted with ever so little time.

and, just like we are like spring flowers, we are also unlike spring flowers. we are not perennials. this moment – now – is our chance…to grow and bud and bloom.

how much better to wander in fields of flowers – of beauty – than to squander time and languish in thorns.

*****

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

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the daffodil told us. [kerri’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab.]

and suddenly, there – in the midst of dried fallen leaves and fallowed underbrush, trees not yet ready to bud – there – there it was.

and it was simply in seeing it – the daffodil – that hope was evident. next is evident. tomorrow is evident.

anything right now will soon be before. the daffodil told us.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

SMACK-DAB. ©️ 2024 kerrianddavid.com

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the notion of attention. [d.r. thursday]

picture-of-the-day is a driving force. every day now – straight – for over two years – i have posted a picture of the day on our thread. when covid was first present in our world, now two years and a couple months ago, my son suggested that each of us, my son and daughter and i, post a photo a day and it would keep me feeling more in the loop; the connection would be reassuring. i oh-so-agreed and have been really deliberate about these images.

no words necessary, though any kind of descriptor is welcome, these photographs are a glimpse into each other’s lives. i take it really seriously and i celebrate any time either one of them posts a photo, loving the window-in. and all day i look for the photo-capture that will be my picture-of-the-day. it’s a practice i love. intentional observing of the world around me. we all see the same things; we all see different things. i love noticing. and i have found – as in anything – the more i notice, the more i notice.

“the notion of attention … to see that the way the flicker flies is greatly different from the way the swallow plays in the golden air of summer…” (“our world” – text by mary oliver, photographs by molly malone cook)

we hiked over the weekend. we hadn’t been on any trail in a couple of weeks as the weather has been uncooperative. our hike was punctuated with my stopping and stopping again. so much to photograph, so many changes in the forest. i want to go slow, slow; this is not a get-your-heartrate-up exercise, but my heart was exercised nonetheless. so much beauty to see, so many tiny miracles within my reach.

david does not rush me. we were there – on that trail – to rejuvenate, to breathe, to take it all in. how do i capture that in a picture-of-the-day, i wondered. i photograph the new dandelion sharing gravel with the path. i photograph shy tiny pink flowers bending down toward the earth. i photograph the mayapple which has suddenly burst into the underbrush world. i photograph the trillium not yet blooming and wonder aloud which warmer day this week they will open to the sun. so many greens. full spectrum, not just the verdant new spring grass. slow, slow.

“i lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass…” (walt whitman – “song of myself”)

it rained the day of this post’s photograph. again. it had been raining for days, grey end on end. my picture-of-the-day would depict the rain, a dissatisfaction with the lack of sun. but, even in that frustration-of-waiting for the lamb days, i knew i could find something to notice about the rain, something to give pause.

the trees in the reflection – still leafless – reminded me. the rain falling here – brutally absent in drought-corners of this world – gentle and insistent, driving and adamant in turn, brings new growth, a transition to a new season, washing away the dust and salt of winter and its tears.

“it was my pleasure to notice such things…” (mary oliver – “our world”)

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

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little by little. [k.s. friday]

“bows and flows of angel hair and ice cream castles in the air. and feathered canyons everywhere, i’ve looked at clouds that way.” (joni mitchell)

it’s march. less bluesky days than gray. more rain than sun. drear > brilliant. march in-the-north is a funny time. it’s neither this nor that. a transition zone. it’s cold. it’s warm. it’s both. it’s never consistent. you just never know.

and so, you realize that you have to grab onto the days that shake you out of cobwebs and from under the quilts of winter. you must go stare at the sky. and those clouds. they hope you.

i walked looking up. watching the play of sunlight. remembering what it feels like to have warm sun on my face and not see puffs of air in front of me as i breathe into it.

in the middle of a time of some worry i drink in the sounds and sights of normal around me. i hold tightly to the returning sound of early sparrows and stalwart chickadees and finches. i stand in blue and fluffy white, grateful for a day that is not a shade of gray.

i sat on the edge of the deck, dogga at my side. we watched two cardinals flurrying about. we listened to the crows and watched for the hawk. there was nothing that had to be done in those moments, no project, no task. it just was. it wasn’t really warm but it wasn’t really cold either.

it’s the grayness that is the challenge. sitting in the question of season. the not-this-not-that. elusive spring. the calendar reads “spring” yet the reality in these parts is not in keeping with the definition of “to leap, burst forth”. an illusion, as there is no leaping, no bursting forth here. it is more of a slow slide into the season. snowpiles struggling to remain in the shadows, shreds of ice on the pond. the good earth will take its sweet time, in bits and spurts, little by little, and, eventually, spring will have arrived and we will glance around and be surprised.

i look at the weekend weather. i’ll turn 63 on sunday. i would like it to be warm, sunny. i would like to gather my children and my family and dear friends and eat birthday cake with lots of candles and singing under a blue-puffy-cloud-sky. wishes.

accuweather tells me it will not be warm. it will be the coldest day of the weeks on either side. and, for many reasons of this time, it will not be gathered with my children or my family or dear friends and i will not be eating cake with candles. i don’t know about the singing. all…little by little.

but it’s supposed to be sunny.

and that counts. every little by little.

“i’ve looked at clouds from both sides now, from up and down and still somehow: it’s cloud illusions i recall; i really don’t know clouds at all.” (and judy collins sings)

*****

little by little (©️ 2022 kerri sherwood feat. dogga)

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read DAVID’s thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY