I hope I never lose my sense of wonder. If that makes me naive, then so be it.

Tuesday, 24 November 2009


I like fog. It's like a big grey blanket (a cool, wet blanket, I admit) that wraps the world in a bit of mystery. Maybe it's my Maritime upbringing, so when I see it here inland, it's a tiny bit of childhood familiarity that makes me like it. There's something about looking across hazy fields at the shadows of the trees, indistinct and just suggesting the land beyond.

Last night was thick fog for our area. Of course nothing like the fog that sweeps in from the ocean, "pea soup fog" we always called it. The girls, with their Ontario upbringing, haven't seen it as much and they were amazed when I told them about driving with the window down so that you could see the line beside the car to follow the road, since you couldn't make out the road just ahead of the car. Out we ventured to take a friend home who'd been here for the evening.

No problems with the drive until we were almost home and the headlights picked up something on our lane just ahead. Road kill, I thought. Nope. A seagull. At 9:00 at night. Huh? Standing there. Well, until I hit it.

Strange, that.

Monday, 9 November 2009


"Being an artist is painfully hard." (Seren)

I read a quote once that talked about how artists tend to be more sensitive by nature. That's how we see things that we then express to others. We must feel deeply so that we can take others there. It's how pictures and phrases appear in art that a lot of people might not have thought of themselves, yet when they see it or hear it they see a piece of them and their life in it. The "aah" moment happens and we connect. It can be good, and as Seren says, it can also hurt.

As I wrote and put this project together, I started to see myself as a bit of an artist. I could relate to the investment of body, spirit, emotion that exhausts and exhilarates. The desire to find a way to put to words thoughts that always seem to flit about, just out of reach. The excitement of hearing audibly what had only existed in the imagination.

There's a lot of me in The View From Here. It sounds cliche, but I did put heart and soul into it. And I'm really, really happy with it. I grew as a musician and as a person through the process. The little dream got nurtured and I felt what it was to soar. I wanted to make something that would make God smile at His little girl's efforts, and I truly think I did.

So when the local radio station said they won't be playing it, it hurt. A lot. Not to say they weren't very nice about it, the email was very friendly. And I know not everyone will like my sound or my style, or maybe the mix. I don't like every song I hear on the radio. And of course it's their decision.

But, ouch.

It's humbling. And being humble is good, I know. I will learn, I will keep on.

There are other stations. Maybe some of them will like it. I'm gun-shy now, though, and the little voice that says "you really aren't good enough" that I thought had finally shut up is fairly screaming now. It's a little conflicting, my mind running the gamut from dejected, to annoyed, to wanting to learn, to depressed, to apathetic, to frustrated, to trying to see some good from it, to trying to understand, to hopeful for other options, and back to dejected.

But I need to remember why I made this CD, why I wrote the songs. Is my Father smiling?

Head down, keep trudging. I'll get to the view from the top of the mountain yet.