It Takes Two [David’s blog on KS Friday]

If you visit my About page you will find this quote by Reynolds Price: A need to tell and hear stories is essential to us – second in necessity after nourishment and before love and shelter.” Although I have updated my blog site several times over the years, I’ve not found a quote that better encapsulates what I believe.

I’ve read this quote hundreds of times. And, to my utter surprise, I recently learned that I’ve never fully understood it. I thought it was about story.

It’s funny how a brain works. Standing on the dock, staring into the harbor at sunset, Kerri snapped and then shared her photograph of a single boat moored in the harbor. In the frame the boat is alone – an image of loneliness – the synapse that fired in my noggin was the quote, “A need to tell and hear stories…”. A need to share. A need to be connected. A need to be a part of. Essential to us. Necessary. Story is what we share. The indispensable is that we connect through story; we create it together. The quote is about relationship.

Relationship, the need to tell and hear stories, need not be positive. For instance, we are witness to a propaganda machine that intentionally spins a tale to divide the nation. A hungry maga gobbles and regurgitates it. Make no mistake, maga needs woke because without an enemy, without something to fight, maga would have no identity. The straw man called “woke” is maga’s story glue; woke is the monster hiding under maga’s bed. Woke is a windmill erected so maga might have a reason to tilt.

A negative story can transform. It is the reason we came to be standing on the dock at sunset. A lifetime of running led to the necessity of stopping. Turning around meant facing the monster. Facing the monster meant returning to the dock. What was once lonely and broken became reconnected and whole. When faced, the monster shriveled to nothing. A destructive story is not destructive after all but a chapter in an inevitable march to well-being. That should give all of us hope. That is a worthy story to share.

It takes two at the very least to tell and to hear stories. It is essential.

THE WAY HOME on the album THIS PART OF THE JOURNEY © 1998 Kerri Sherwood

Kerri’s music – at least the compositions that she has recorded – is available on iTunes and streaming on Pandora. The vast majority of her music lives in her heart and in a notebook that rests on her piano.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE HARBOR

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Our Predicament [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

I’m not sure what you do for fun but lately I have a habit of Googling idioms. It’s a recent obsession since the advent of AI. It’s not the quick definition that tickles my fancy or the various context and meanings that AI provides. It’s that there is sometimes a bonus “What to do about it” section that I adore. And, why, exactly, do I love it so? It’s sanitized and, when read aloud, sounds like a transcript from a therapy session with an engineer. It’s the voice, the flat-character that sparks my imagination. For me, AI has a soma. It has a face, a voice, and desires a sense of humor.

Consider the idiom “hitting a brick wall”. AI adjusts his position on the couch and pronounces, “Stuckness.” I am visibly unimpressed. He continues, “Encountering an immovable object.” He clears his throat and attempts a smile but becomes self-conscious when I return a poker face. ” It might refer to mental exhaustion,” he adds to cover his discomfort. “It might be a creative-tank gone empty. No energy.” I nod, noncommittal. He asserts, “Writer’s block and hitting a brick wall are one and the same thing.” Again, I am unresponsive. My AI engineer-turned-therapist coughs and suggests that likely solutions would include taking a break or simply accepting my predicament. He adjusts his glasses and encourages me to reflect on how I got stuck in the first place so I might identify and remove the trigger. I squint. He is visibly uncomfortable, so he pulls one more platitude from his memory bank: “Seek a trusted colleague or a neutral party who can help you identify a solution that you cannot see.” He is visibly sweating-in-monotone.

“That’s why I’m here,” I say. “You seem to be a neutral party. But, can I trust you?” I ask. “That’s my question. Are you a truly a reliable colleague?”

My engineer-turned-therapist stares at me, unsure how to respond.

“It seems you’ve hit a brick wall,” I suggest. “Perhaps we should take a break and reflect on our predicament or simply accept our situation.”

read Kerri’s blogpost about BRICK WALLS

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The Sound of Peace [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

There’s a mourning dove serenading us as we write. I love their song. They make me think of Bali. Each morning I took early meditation walks to the song of mourning doves. For me, they are the sound of peace.

Our Airbnb was on the grounds of a Catholic retreat center. After a long day of freeway driving it was a special treat to leave the known world and enter a patch of earth dedicated to quiet and reflection. Our host told us that we were welcome to walk the grounds so, after unloading our bags, we wandered the woods and slow-walked the roads. I was once again reminded how profound – and immediate – is the impact of our environment on us. Aggression evokes aggression. We meet the violence of the news-of-the-day with anger and fear. We are not as independent, not nearly as separate, as we like to believe. Environment shapes behavior. David Abram wrote that presence (a quiet mind) is nearly impossible in the incessant goal-driven noise of the USofA.

And, so, we stepped into the woods. The harried drive dropped from our shoulders, the frenetic game of freeway leap-frog dissipated. I imagined the trees breathed in our weariness and exhaled ease into our bones. We relished the vibrant colors elicited by the setting sun. We stood still and absorbed the bird song. We strolled by the nun’s residence and I wondered what a life lived in retreat might awaken.

I wondered what this nation might become if it honored quiet truth as much a noisy distraction…and then I let that thought go. It was a remnant of the freeway, a disturbance from another world. It called my attention away from the song of the mourning dove.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE CENTER

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Dancing On The Periphery [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

The light plays on the water. I imagine it is the quick glimpse of a spirit, shimmering at the corner of my vision and then vanishing when I try to look directly at it. It was our last night in the village so we walked on the dock to wish it farewell. My imagination of spirits was not random; all day I’d been saying things like, “We have good angels,” or “That was more than serendipity.” Helping hands seemed to surround us.

I also imagine that the very real good angels in our everyday-lives do not like to be seen. That must be the reason they hover at the edges of sight. They prefer to stay out of the limelight. Service is its own reward. I learned this from a lesson I used to adore assigning to my students: be an angel for someone with the single strict caveat that their angel-ness needed to be a secret. “What does it mean to be an angel?” they’d ask in a panic. I’d shrug.

“Figure it out.” And they always did. Their angel experiences were electric, eye-opening. Dare I suggest life-changing? It is profound to intentionally focus goodness on another human being with no expectation of reciprocity – and discover that goodness itself is intensely fulfilling. Life is empty if self-serving. “Find a need and fill it,” Ann was fond of saying.

Hovering at the edge of sight.

We’d returned to the village to reclaim a piece of the past and, standing on the dock, I was suddenly overcome with the realization that the good angel might be – just might be – that long lost piece, that younger version, beckoning, “This way! I’m over here.” The older version and the younger, angels to each other, each responsible for guiding the other home. Dancing on the periphery of sight, reaching through time.

‘It feels different now,” she said and I smiled. Surrounded by warm memories of our days in the village, we stood still on the dock. The sailboats swayed in the harbor. The light played on the water.

“It feels like coming home.”

read Kerri’s blog about THE VILLAGE

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And Then What Happens? [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

Once upon a time…

And then what happens?

It was sunny and bright at the beginning of our long drive. Little did we know that a few hours later we’d be stuck on the freeway, standing completely still in an endless construction delay, with tornado warnings blaring on our phone: “Get into the basement or a safe place now!” What do you do when there is no safe place? What happened next?

We have a good chuckle at the expense of Google Maps. It wants to be a soothsayer. It wants to tell us what’s coming, what’s in our future. “There are police ahead.” Or, “There’s road construction ahead.” Usually, GM tells us about the construction when we’re already in it. “There’s a lane closed ahead!” GM warns.

“No kidding,” we respond.

“It’s a 14 minute delay,” she chirps. An hour later, traffic at a standstill, Kerri says, “I don’t like the look of those clouds.” The sky darkens and bubbles. And then what happens?

In the little village we walked by the door of a psychic. The sign read, “Tarot Readings”. I admit that I was tempted to go in. I’m always tempted. Who doesn’t want to have some sense of what is about to happen?

On our long drive we talked about our careers. Artist’s careers are not like plumbers or lawyers. It is possible to be artistically successful and financially unsuccessful. The same cannot be said for accountants or electricians. When I was running theatre companies I regularly reminded hardworking-yet-disheartened actors that, according to the union that represented them, less than 2% of the membership actually made a living acting. The same cannot be said of the machinist’s union or the teamsters. Artistry is not a business, it’s more akin to a service-calling. It’s not for the weak of heart. It’s not for those who worship the idols of stability and consistency. “There’s a silver lining,” she said. “We’re probably better prepared than most people for dealing with uncertainty.”

We managed to get off the freeway before the storm hit. Sitting in the parking lot of a gas station we wondered what to do. We were still hours from our destination. The rain started gently but soon became a downpour, driven by gusts. Buckets of rain with attitude. The truck jolted with each blast. “Well?” she asked, “What now?

“Life’s like a novel with the end ripped out…” Lyric from STAND, sung by Rascal Flatts

read Kerri’s blogpost about UNCERTAINTY

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Squirrel Lore [David’s blog on KS Friday]

My dad had a special relationship with squirrels though I doubt he thought of his squirrel-connection as special. He kept a BB gun at the ready to keep the little varmints from eating the peaches from his tree. He never aimed to hit them. He’d shoot the leaves close by to scare them. Once, when his eyesight was failing, he accidentally hit a squirrel. “Did I hit him?” he asked me, horrified. The squirrel was stung but otherwise uninjured. My dad was wounded to his core. “I didn’t mean to hit him,” he repeated, misty eyed throughout the evening. I am not certain but I think that was the last time he touched his BB gun.

Our yard is alive with squirrels. Dogga chases them. He gives them a quick bark as he skids to a stop while they scurry to the safety of the pine tree. And then he prances, triumphant in his mission of yard patrol. Later, we laugh as he lounges on the deck, uninterested in the yard-antics of the squirrels.

The squirrels have easily cracked the code of every bird-feeder-squirrel-protection-mechanism on the market. They are furry little ninjas stealing birdseed like their human counterparts heist diamonds. After years of gadgets and guards and placements – and serious thoughts about finding my dad’s leaf-ready BB gun – we’re in full surrender. We now scatter birdseed on the potting bench and on the top of Barney-the-piano. We invite the furry masses. The birds and squirrels dine peacefully together. They take turns. They are well fed.

When I refresh the scatter of seed I think of my dad. His squirrel campaign gave him a sense of purpose. Protecting the peach tree from the squirrels was a worthy-and-fun retirement mission. Without their constant assault on the peaches he would have been left with nothing more meaningful than cutting the grass (note: he edged the yard on his hands and knees with handheld clippers. My brother threatened to buy him an edger but he adamantly resisted. In analogy, my brother assumed the role of a squirrel, threatening my dad’s yard aesthetic routine).

I sometimes wonder if the squirrels watch us in utter fascination. We humans need challenges to feel useful. If we don’t have challenges we invent them; we call them hobbies. It’s the reason that “conflict” is the driver of every human story. A yearning meets an obstacle (Robert Olen Butler’s definition of “story”). Yearning needs obstacle like my dad needed squirrels. And now I have a special relationship with the squirrels: I do not try to deter them. I love watching them. I love Dogga’s daily game with them. They give him purpose. I love scattering seed for them. I love that they make me smile and remember the gentle man who was my father.

YOU MAKE A DIFFERENCE © 2002 Kerri Sherwood

Kerri’s music is available on iTunes and streaming on Pandora

read Kerri’s blogpost about SQUIRRELS

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Send It Packing [David’s blog on DR Thursday]

There’s lots of silverware sets in the antique stores. The felt cases are deteriorating, the silver tarnished. They come from another era, dare I suggest, another mindset. We moderns are more interested in the latest-new. Unlike our ancestors, we’ve grown up in a world of planned obsolescence. We do not expect our appliances to last. Our children – like us – are not interested in grandma’s good china or in the fine silver. There is no place for it to go so it inevitably lands in the antique mall.

We have a different relationship with time than did our ancestors. We have a different relationship with the stuff of our lives. We need not make things last or make things that are intended to last. Central to our day-to-day functionality is technology and it rapidly changes, it is out-of-date the moment it arrives on the scene. If we are to keep up, if we are to be relevant in our world, we need to be more fluid than our predecessors. Making stuff that lasts, durability, is no longer high on the priority list. Changeability is the necessity.

I hear these questions a lot lately: How is it possible that I didn’t know that? How is it possible that I do not know the full history of this nation? It’s a question I ask myself almost daily. Oligarchs aligning with fascists to erase democracy is not new to our era. White nationalism is a river that runs through all the pages of our history book. Sadly, our present turmoil is not new. We’ve been here before. My hope is that we see it for what it is and treat it like an old silverware set. My hope is that this is the last cycle, that we are the generation that sends it packing to the antique mall. We’re not interested in passing it down or enabling another go-round. We’d like our children to have a future free of the rotting relic of racism.

Changeability is the necessity. A democracy free of the ugly hubris of the morbidly wealthy, a democracy that thrives on equality, is necessarily fluid, ever growing and adapting with the diverse nation it upholds. There is no useful place in our nation-home for the tarnished mindset of maga-white-nationalism. It is a relic. Its case is deteriorating. It needs to go.

Notion, 33″x 60″, mixed media on canvas

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE GOOD SILVER

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Tender Of The Garden [David’s blog on Not So Flawed Wednesday]

A week ago they were nowhere to be found. This week the peonies are poppin’! Kerri is the guardian of the peonies, the tender-of-the-garden.

My job is to clean out and prepare the beds for new growth. I love it. It is a possible analogy for what my work in the world has always been. Working with student actors or business-folk sometimes felt like clearing the thought-debris that choked their belief. Once the debris was cleared there was no stopping them. Nothing but potential. Peonies-a-poppin’! I loved it.

I usually wait until May to clean out and reset the pond but last week I had an overwhelming desire to DO IT NOW. It was the single warm day in a week of miserable weather. Before I knew it I’d pumped out the old water, removed the leaves and sticks, scrubbed and checked the liner, completely cleaned and restored the filters and the pump, and was refilling the pond with clear water. The fountain gurgled to life. It sounds like a bubbling brook. It is a sound that soothes us.

“So, today’s the day,” she said.

“Today’s the day.” She spied me eyeing the grasses and flower beds. She knows me. Once an impulse takes over I can be, well, obsessive.

“Too soon.” She said. “It’s too soon.” She pulled chairs into the sun so we might sit and watch the pond refill. She knows that if she can get me to sit in the sun and break the momentum then the impulse will abate. My obsession makes her nervous so she’s become expert at tempering my mania.

It occurs to me that she is clearing my heart and mind of debris. It is true, I am easier in the world. She is, after all, the guardian of the peonies, the tender of the garden.

read Kerri’s blogpost about PEONIES

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It Follows [David’s blog on Two Artists Tuesday]

In our house it is possible to accidentally lock yourself into the bedroom. It is simple, really; there is an old doorknob on the outside of the door but the matching inner knob is missing. Close the door too hard and the door will latch just as the old knob falls. Instant bedroom prisoner. We used to keep a screwdriver in the bedroom for face-saving escapes but I looked for it after the last lock-in and couldn’t find it.

It is useful to keep in mind that our house is nearing its 100th birthday and is alive with the quirks and issues of age. I admit that we could fix the bedroom door problem but we see it less as a problem and more of a character trait. Besides, it gives the person on the outside the satisfying opportunity to play the role of rescuer. Note: the rescue always comes with the mixed message of a smirk and an admission. We’ve both been on the inside in surprise lock up.

We keep a knob on the kitchen shelf. It is placed near the antique coffee pots that serve as tea containers. The knob is beautiful so it serves as a decoration. Another glass knob sits in the hole next to the kitchen faucet that once was a soap dispenser. The dispenser was problematic so it was retired but that left a hole. One morning I found a knob plugging the hole and knew Kerri was trying it on as a solution. It catches the morning light and occasionally casts a rainbow on the backsplash. Kitchen performance art; it’s a keeper.

You might be asking why we use the extra knobs as decoration or as sink-hole-fillers instead of fixing the bedroom door – and it is a fair question. Neither knob works as a knob; the inner threading is stripped. They have no internal grip so have transcended mere function and live beautifully in form. You know the old saying: form follows function. Isn’t it glorious when the function of a form evolves finally to become beauty in the world? Or, maybe it is better to ask, isn’t it glorious when we evolve and see beyond mere function and at last are capable of seeing the beauty available in our lives?

read Kerri’s blogpost about KNOBS

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In The Form Of Food [David’s blog on Merely A Thought Monday]

“There is no sincerer love than the love of food.” ~ George Bernard Shaw

As you probably know by now we close-out our day by watching hiking videos, usually of people attempting long distance thru-hikes like the Pacific Crest Trail or the Appalachian Trail. Much of the time on trail the hikers dream of food. Hamburgers and pizza, burritos and pancakes. Hiker hunger fills their imaginations with Romanesque feasts. They ache to satisfy their deepest-food-yearning.

I used to delight visiting a bakery with Joe. He would press his nose to the glass and moan with delight at the prospect of eating pie. Making a choice was never easy and took considerable time. Patrons would come and go with bags full of goodies before Joe would at last settle on a selection. He reverently carried his wild berry or apple cinnamon pie to a table, his first taste was nothing short of adoration.

We delight in cooking together. I am the sous chef and Kerri the masterful Julia Child. We have favorite recipes which are supplanted by new favorites which help us rediscover the old favorites as if they were brand new. Like the hikers, when we plan our menu for the week be begin to dream of Wednesday’s dinner or “We can’t wait for Saturday!” Sometimes the anticipation is too much and we rearrange our plan to eliminate the delay in our gratification. We are not good at delayed gratification. It’s something we will have to work on if we actually attempt a thru-hike; we imagine a drone service bringing meals-on-demand to us on the trail. Or, perhaps, a chef hikes ahead of us with a mule train of supplies to make all that we yearn to eat.

Late in the night we heard the clang of the useless squirrel guard on the bird feeder. It sounds like someone dropped a metal garbage can lid. We flipped on the back porch light and peered through the blinds. A raccoon was feasting on the bird seed. He expertly worked the mechanism to deliver new seed to the tray. He snacked like an uninvited guest at a wedding buffet. We chuckled at his delight, his nonchalance. The bright light did not deter his dining. His worship was more gluttonous than Joe’s pie-idolatry but no less satisfying. I suspect he knows that we will refill the feeder and do nothing to deter his future food frenzy.

We believe that in these dark days it’s important to affirm in any way possible that there’s enough love to go around, especially if the love comes in the form of food.

read Kerri’s blogpost about THE RACCOON

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