reverse threading

the path back is the path forward


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potatoes and teamwork. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

an unusual event, we went out for dinner. we had received a gift card as a present and were excited to use it, having saved it for some time. we had great anticipation.

when we walked in, the seating hostess was slammed. there was quite a crowd, yet this young lady maintained her grace and sense of humor, eventually leading us to a table for two. another young woman brought us glasses of water and placed menus in front of us. when our server came we ordered drinks and the bartender sent over two glasses of wine. we studied the menu carefully – trying to decide which of the dinners we would share – our practice – lingering on the salmon choices. we enjoyed our wine, chatting and watching the other diners in the small bistro and the young person who was bussing and cleaning the tables. the chefs in the kitchen prepared a lovely salmon, baked potato and fresh veggies just exactly the right al dente. we finished dining and, noting the crowd yet to be seated, decided to leave and give others a chance at sitting and enjoying a meal.

though i know – because it is as it is – there were defined roles in this restaurant and most definitely a laddered order of authority, it seemed to us, merely observers, that everyone was functioning with great collegiality and camaraderie. and, as observers, we appreciated that, for it made for a lovely dining experience. if we were able to see cracks in the foundation of employee genteel collaboration, it might have undermined the feeling of our dinner. if they were there, we were unaware. if so, i suspect they were able to work it all out, trust each other, rely on loyalty. it was a smoothly operating machine, despite the challenges of crowd and small space.

the thing that stood out for us – in that dining experience – was the obvious appreciation that each employee had for each other. there was no pointed ill will or jostling of power. they just worked together even though they might have been stressed. it is the power of allies, of a good team, the respectful valuing of each member of the team. they built a good team there – dedicated to the same mission.

i thought about our eating-out making dinner a few nights later. needing some good ole comfort food, we decided to “make us some mashed potatoes”.

so i started thinking about mashed potatoes – ours, simply potatoes and a little bit of salt and pepper, mashed with a potato masher. not the fancy-schmancy add-butter-milk-sourcream-cheese variety, you can’t get much simpler than ours. yet, they are a stalwart addition to any meal. a fluff of mashed potatoes flanked by veggies and maybe a veggie burger or a chicken breast. comfort indeed. no push-pull of power there. no agenda-jostling. just mashed potatoes. they don’t need special billing, yet they know their place in dinner is important. they feel the aretha franklin r-e-s-p-e-c-t.

and, there is nothing quite like that first forkful of mashed potatoes. the yum. it’s coming home on a plate.

i felt a funny rush of appreciation for mashed potatoes. we don’t think enough about the elements of our dinner, the workers in the restaurant, the people who add value, meaning, resonance, life to organizations to which we belong. we don’t ponder the integral nature of their existence on the plate, in the bistro, in the institution, how much we count on them. we don’t realize – until the grocery store is strangely out of potatoes – how much we depended upon them, their place on our dinner plate – or, by extension of these other examples – their hard work as we celebratorily dine out or their place in the soul of our organization.

sometimes, it’s the loss of potatoes that makes us miss potatoes. and then we wonder – after-the-fact – what can we do to make sure potatoes are always preserved, always available?

we thanked each of the workers and servers in the restaurant and we tipped well. we always do, no matter what. if tipping is not within our means, we will not go out. for the reason we are having the experience at all is because of the good work of those good people.

so – after my musing about mashed potatoes and teams of people – i’ll just say this: do not minimize the importance of mashed potatoes, the value of mashed potatoes. they are often the glue in a meal, and skin-on mashed potatoes are rich in fiber, low in calories, and have nutrients like vitamin c, potassium and vitamin b6.  all building-blocks.

and we all need good building-blocks. and a little respect.

*****

COUNT ON YOU from AS SURE AS THE SUN ©️ 2002 kerri sherwood – THIS SONG IS NOT JAZZ NOR DOES RUMBLEFISH OWN ANY PUBLISHING RIGHTS TO IT. THIS SONG IS 200% OWNED BY THE COMPOSER AND PERFORMING ARTIST KERRI SHERWOOD.

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rogue potato in parking lot

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

the tulip was exquisite. grand and graceful and svelte and without wrinkle. it was stunning – even in its never-blooming. and then…a few days went by. days, in the lives of tulips-in-vases, are years, decades in the lives of humans, i suspect. it held on for many of those days, petals smooth and tightly wound in its bud. and then.

we glanced at it – this vase of flowers on the table – pale pink that had kept us company, had given us pause.

and there, in the place where there had been a tulip, was an orchid.

now, you might argue, that’s not an orchid!

but i would counter that with this: if a tulip – in its next phase – wishes to look somehow like an orchid, wishes to open its petals in an orchid-like ballet – who are we to question it? must the tulip mimic the orchid perfectly? or is the nod to orchid, the bow to that maestro enough?

the orchid, tulip, dandelion theory and study … a categorization of life. are we smack-dab in orchid: highly sensitive, beautiful flowers that need very particular environments to thrive? are we firmly entrenched in dandelion: low-sensitivity, hardy, resilient, adaptable, which can grow virtually anywhere? or are we nestled in tulip: which falls somewhere between the two extremes of the sensitivity scale?

yet i wonder. do we cross over? do we linger in the liminal space between flowers? do we stretch our limbs to touch orchid? do we relax to be dandelions in the breeze?

maybe this tulip wanted a moment to be seen almost as an orchid, to feel almost like an orchid, to experience orchid.

or – maybe – this tulip was part orchid all along.

and i wonder…what i will be in the next phase of life.

*****

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nights are forever. [kerri’s blog on saturday morning smack-dab.]

so much to think about. the middle of the night is a mashup festival of thoughts.

sometimes our level of profundity in the night is astounding. we converse and deep dive and solve all the world’s problems, quoting nietzsche and rumi and mary oliver and john muir.

and sometimes, it is less deep, less intense, less – well – anything at all. just random. and one of us – i’m not admitting to being the one – goes on and on, pondering, pondering, pondering – all aloud – convinced the other one of us – again, no pointed fingers here – is actually listening.

meanwhile, the dogga jumps up on the end of the bed – groaning – and yawns, falling into a deep slumber, his paws running, running, running, in dreamland.

sometimes nights are forever.

*****

and, speaking of random…that reminds me of a great 70s song that has nothing to do with this because we are both right here….still, great song!

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SMACK-DAB. ©️ 2024 kerrianddavid.com

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a front is a front. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

the front was obvious. the edge was unmistakable. i know there have been other days when it was so, but for some reason – this very week, this very day – it was profound. clear-cut demarcation. dense clouds meeting blue-blue sky – a distinct line.

though often – most days, really – the clouds co-exist with the blue sky, this made the front system – windy, cold, raw, a bit nasty – inordinately clear. there was no doubt where it was and where it wasn’t. this front did not hide in tall cumulonimbus plumes. this front did not pose as puffy cumulus clouds, lurking in wait for opportunity to tower and turn into thunderstorms. this front was what it was. it was not duplicitous.

i must say i appreciated that about this front. it was just so clear, so transparent, honest, if you can attach such an adjective to a weather system. i stopped at a light and grabbed my camera to try and capture the line in the sky. it was a good day to remind myself that lines like this really do exist. nature is straight-forward about its intention. it’s not pretending to be something else.

a front is a front. blue sky is blue sky. a storm is a storm. nothing two-faced about it.

as usual, humans could learn a lot from nature.

“compared with the intense purity and cordiality and beauty of nature, the most delicate refinements and cultures of civilization are gross barbarisms.” (john muir)

*****

HOLDING STEADFAST from BLUEPRINT FOR MY SOUL ©️ 1996 kerri sherwood

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buds and blossoms. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

daisies were on my shopping list. our daughter was coming into town and i wanted some fresh flowers on our table and in her room. so, daisies are our go-to.

but the pink tulips caught my eye. long slender stems and the palest pink buds, i could feel my whole body slow down gazing at them.

every time i look at them it feels the same way.

the buds never opened. yet, the tulips are still proudly standing tall, ten days later. it is an image of potential. a visceral right-in-front-of-us portrayal of stately beauty. or maybe it’s an image of choice – of taking a different road. these tulips are stunning. and it is not in their blossoming open.

both of us artists, i can tell you there are many, many unopened buds. they stack in corners and in notebooks, in the recesses of our minds, on our laptops. they are pale pink and soft. they are deep-red and fiery. they wait for their moment.

and some buds don’t open. i read those buds may have faced a particularly cold winter, or had too much — or too little — exposure to heat and sunlight. i’d add that they may have had naysayers naysaying at them. they may be competing for sun with other buds, other flowers, other ideas.

or maybe they just like it that way. as buds. standing tall and quiet, emanating peace and tranquility.

every time i have looked at these pink tulips i have thought about their color. i have imagined it on a wall – the palest pink – with white crown moldings and trim. never having had a pink wall, i’ve wondered about how it might feel to be in such a room. i’ve wondered if it might feel the way it feels gazing at these buds.

i’m cheering our tulips on for another few days, maybe even another week. i want to keep them around. they are making me breathe differently. they are giving me pause. they are making me imagine.

and maybe that’s the point. it’s not always about the blossom.

*****

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my cello. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

i sold my cello this week.

i would be lying if i told you i didn’t cry at the string shop.

i did cry. i’m crying now.

i am a professional pianist. a composer. proudly a yamaha artist with an intensely beautiful C5 in my studio and fifteen albums plus of vulnerability out in the world. i play the guitar and the ukulele. i dabbled on the trumpet in college for five minutes or so. but, oh…the cello.

the moment i touched my cello i had a bond with it. and, holding the idea close of learning to play mournfully heart-draining melody lines, i purchased it. because artists dream, i played.

but reality is reality.

and now – with 45° of wrist forward range of motion – my cello needed a new home. it’s just a fact.

i held onto it long after i knew this. it’s hard to let go a dream. and i’ve never before sold a beloved instrument.

yet, cellos – like all instruments – need to be loved on: played, listened to, tweaked, played more. a paesold, german-made, warm and resonant in tone, it begged to come out of the corner of my studio. though i tried to ignore it, it is like ignoring the stare of an australian shepherd who clearly wants you to do something (and we have experience with this). so my cello kept staring at me and staring at me. even without entering my studio – for i have not spent much time in there in these most recent years – i could feel the stare of the cello through the wall.

until finally.

i know this cello is valuable. yet, the string shop i sold it to – for much less than its value – was full of string music and luthiers working, a performance space and a full marching line of cellos on the wall. it will not be lonely as it waits to be re-homed.

the shopowner knew how hard it was for me to sell this cello, to leave it behind, to leave at all.

i touched its maple and spruce, exquisitely varnished. i spoke to my cello. and i blew it a kiss as we left, entirely and utterly choked-up.

and i wondered how my cello-dream might morph into something else.

because it’s still raw.

*****

LAST I SAW YOU from THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY ©️ 1997, 2000 kerri sherwood

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and ohhh, these overalls. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

though i know it won’t really matter to either of them, i’ll hang a pair of tiny overalls and a pair of tiny first-walking-shoes on a peg in each of their rooms.

i was deep in memories going through and washing all of their infant and toddler clothing. touching each and every piece, i kept thinking, “surely he/she would want me to save this!!”. i seriously pondered making them quilts out of their childhood clothing, sure that they would treasure these. until i realized something.

it’s me who remembers these tiny clothes. it’s me who remembers my little girl – tucked into her bear chair – a stack of books next to her, absorbed. it’s me who remembers my little boy – kneeling on the road rug with buildings and streets and stop signs, matchbox cars lined up or zooming with his little hand. they were tiny toddlers with no real thought about memorizing forever and ever what they had on. i’m the one who remembers what they were wearing. i’m the one who remembers the onesies, the sleepers and the footie pajamas. i’m the one who remembers the tiny jeans and turtlenecks. i’m the one who remembers the polly flinders smocked dresses and sweet rompers. i’m the one who remembers the oshkosh overalls.

so i’ll hang the oshkosh b’goshes upstairs anyway. and i’ve decided to hold out just a few items from the big ikea bags that we will deliver to the mission in chicago. and i’ll cut yoyos out of these and make a small yoyo hanging that i can place on a hook in our bedroom. that way, anytime i want to get lost in the memories of my amazing adult children as babies and toddlers, i can touch a little fabric that will bring me back.

*****

I WILL HOLD YOU FOREVER AND EVER ©️ 2005 kerri sherwood

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a reminder. [kerri’s blog on two artists tuesday]

they are everywhere. if you are open to them. hearts just sort of show up. it’s our job to notice them.

this one is simply a dogga-fuzz on the quilt. but it’s clearly a heart and i had to take a picture of it before dogdog rolled over and it disappeared forever. a simple symbol. a breath of warm air.

she bought a heart clock in a sweet antique boutique up north a bit. my dear friend is a collector of hearts and this one – well, it was obvious. a small red heart clock with sweetly-fonted numbers and a tiny heart at the end of the hour hand. it’s her. and i really love that about her. she surrounds herself with hearts and exudes warmth just the way you’d anticipate from someone who has hearts all around her.

i don’t have nearly the number of hearts she has, but i have a zillion photographs of hearts. naturally occurring as puddles or stones or leaves. purposely created – hearts in sand, in snow, painted on rocks.

it doesn’t take much to see them. but to stop all action and photograph them is a commitment.

yet, every time i do – stop traffic – stop all movement – stop our hike – stop the dog from rolling over – i feel like the universe smiles. and one more time i am reminded of love. every kind of love, every display of love, every bit of love that surrounds me.

maybe that’s why i notice hearts all the time. to remember just that.

*****

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en pointe, arms fourth position. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

en pointe, arm in fourth ordinary position, the queen lace stands in late winter. curved seed petal over her head she stands in the brilliant sun, ready to release all the rest, to grow, to start over. 

way back in the day, one of my favorite times in each week’s schedule was when my little girl took ballet lessons. she had a pink leotard and tights and tiny ballet slippers. we parents sat on the wood floor in the hallway just outside the entrance to the dance studio, gazing in wonder at our little girls – dancing. tiny ballerinas. the sweetest ballet.

our play group back then gathered in our houses, with a revolving schedule. when we were anywhere near a piano, i’d play music and all the little ones would dance. it was amazing and inspiring to see all these tiny people dancing with abandon. so much joy. 

we passed the queen anne’s lace and i could see these tiny dancers as we passed by – arm curved and raised overhead, on tippy-toes, swaying, twirling in the wind. 

in my mind i raised my arm up – over my head – and pirouetted around. right there on the trail. what better way to greet the sun of each new day, i thought.

*****

SWEET BALLET from RELEASED FROM THE HEART ©️ 1995 kerri sherwood

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damn prickly. [kerri’s blog on k.s. friday]

there are people like this. prickly. 

and, just like thistles, prickly people tend to stick together. at least that’s been my experience. 

one wonders what the point of thistles are in the world. what good might they do? the nectar and pollen are of nutritional value to pollinators; the seeds are feed for songbirds. but ouch! the packaging is a bit rough.

sandspurs were a way of life in florida. any time you stood on the swale of the road you would expect to encounter them. they were present on the coast of hilton head too, sticking to the bottom of your flipflops as you walked to the water’s edge. we encounter them on the trail – particularly if you step off, into the underbrush. sandspurs, like thistles, are unwelcome hitchhikers on socks and the bottom hemline of jeans, backpacks you laid down, beachtowels. they are about as prickly as thistles – and about as nasty.

i suppose if people were to assign flora to our personalities, none of us would prefer to be “thistle” or “sandspur”. i’m thinking more along the line of peony or daisy, sunflower or orchid or even cattail or meadow grass. definitely not thistle. definitely not sandspur.

and yet, there are people – out there – who seem to relish their prickliness. maybe it’s to stave off other people. maybe it’s a protective shield of some sort. maybe it’s the result of others’ prickliness to them. or maybe it’s the truth – they are just damn prickly. 

and, as we know, thistles attract thistles. nasty attracts nasty. mean attracts mean. sandspur and thistle posses can be powerful, keeping out – repelling – anything softer, anything into which they can sink those stickers.

each day – as we continually learn of the challenges of others – i think that there is not enough time to be prickly, not enough time to be nasty like that, not enough time to be unkind, not enough time to be uncaring. we barely have enough time to be loving, to be kind, to care about those around us, to have compassion for those we don’t know. 

and despite the many advantages of the thistle, the many advantages of the sandspur, i’m thinking that an outer shell that may or not may belie inner goodness is kind of a waste of precious time. it may be good for the underbrush, good for the meadow, but it’s not so good for humankind.

let’s not be thistles.

*****

BOUNDARIES from RIGHT NOW ©️ 2010 kerri sherwood

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