“Made in China?”

Yes.
Yes, me.
I was made in China.

Even now, the voices remain.
The conversations that have yet to happen, going on and on.
The distinct tones, rhythms, inflections of their voices. The vibrations, pulse. Mannerism.

I must have been listening to these voices since before I was born.

“Antigonish loved Tong’s performance! Beyond her incredible talent as a pianist, we loved her wise, heartfelt introductions to the repertoire. It was a truly engaging concert.” -Norine Verberg

“Astounding performance! So much physical strength and introspective intellect. Her playing was flawless and full of articulated tone that I've never heard before. Thoroughly enjoyable! -Bill Carpenter

I see.
Of course.
It's so simple. So simple.
All the contradictions, complexities, paradoxes, doubts, sacrifices, costs, 'why's' aside -
Simply, simply:
It's love.
It's because of love.
Because at the core. In its purest, most honest, blatant form:
It's because of love.
Because, ultimately, simply - we love it. We love it so much.
God dammit. Strip away everything. And still:
I love piano. So much. So much.
I love playing piano.
I really really love playing piano.

I’m lying in the winter sun back home in Airdrie now, pondering about these changing narratives . Flipping through my 2025 agenda. Week by week. The blessings, the pains, the peculiar entanglement of it all. Bewildering. Enchanting. Disenchanting. Deeply, viscerally heart-shattering. Heart-wrenching. Heart-warming. Gnawing. Little notes. Little mementos, treasures, promises, photos, reminders, vows, breaking vows, broken, half-healed, tender, calloused, morphing realities.

I hope, I never stop being astonished.

I never stop developing fascination. Never stop being serious, seriously, silly. Everything, ‘waiting patiently for my recognition’. People and place. Place and people. One drum. Wagamese or Meyer. Kindred spirits. Kindred. Connected to all things.

That’s what this land and all its inhabitants teach. Living, ‘non-living’. Lava rocks, legacy of ranch working families, fellow cowboy Paniolos, fellow artists, educators, writers, Bubbles the spirit Buddha. Stories in the most unlikely places. The moments in the margins, martinis, blank spaces, hour long runs with a backpack of Foodland groceries, repeating, improvising, dancing. Simply—

Mahalo.