DP's Delivery Service
Storytellers, storylisteners. Two sides of the same coin.
To share a memory, we first listen. Listen and hear humbly.
Notice. Notice how everything, everyone, every tree, buttercup, dandelion, every space, every bite of sushi, sip of coffee, crack of sunflower seed, every taste, word, note, smile, tear … even every car honk, every sigh, every door closing, every hello and goodbye, every silence, every forgotten piece of ourselves, every shade of green or white - they are all energy and memory passing through us, and we are compelled, by this necessity, this duty, to tell their stories.
“We have been given the sacred task of making hearts larger through story. We are working to make hearts that are capable of containing much joy and much sorrow, hearts capacious enough to contain the complexities and mysteries … of ourselves and of each other.”
We honour and remember through music. Not just ourselves, but something so much larger than us.
Allow remembering. Then feel. Then dare to embody. Then re-transmit these stories back into the world, with our gratitude and awe for being a tiny part of this 'creation’ which is really just re-re-re-remembering. Everything that is already here waiting to be discovered, noticed, wondered at. How strange. How curious. Have we been here before?
We can be called many things. Facilitators, curators, rememberers of ancient languages before words.
Or we can all just be called Kiki. Derpy, hopeful, moody teenage witch struggling with the meaning of her magic and attempting to play some small part in delivering something, anything that brings people joy.
That’s all.
So simple yet so impossibly paradoxical, tangled, overwhelming.
There’s an hollowing emptiness that follows each delivery service. You carry and protect this package of love for so long, feed it, grow with it, listen to it, learn and journey with it. But it’s a gift, it’s meant to be given, released, reborn unto the world. And so you share, you try your damn best bringing it to the places, the people it needs to reach. Then you let go, and it takes on a life of its own. And in that moment, it might be embraced, it might be felt or even understood, or it might be tossed aside and rejected. It might never reach its intended destination, maybe it’s too early, too late, or no one is there to receive it. And you’re left with perhaps only its memory, if any at all that’s bearable to remember.
It’s always a risk.
And we keep taking it.
Our capacity is our gift and our burden.
To have that capacity is to constantly carve within ourselves this terrifying void. The untameable unknowable void. A blessing, a superpower, a curse.
But we love it. We learn to live with it. And not just survive, but soar. This is the responsibility and privilege we chose, to be storytellers and storylisteners. To be us, DP’s Delivery Service.
That’s all.
“I forgive you. For bearing Keat’s empty vessel with such calm you worried you had, perhaps, no moral center at all.”
Keats once wrote that poets should be like containers filled only with art. And for that, they need to be ‘empty vessels’ with no identity of self or selfhood. And that is hollowing. Exhausting. Numbing.
Many of us have faced that void. Been that void. It sucks in everything. It takes you to that unreachable place. No compassion, no kindness, no desire, nothing. So how do we remember to care again? It’s the most mysterious question we’re still seeking to understand.
But let’s keep going. For I am proud and humbled to continue this journey alongside people I love and am loved by. And that can still, and always, be simple. Be our promise. Be the root of trust.
All my relations,
Skye.pianist
Now, some mementos and scribbles…
Prelude
March 30, 2023
7:47AM Airdrie
Magic as emotion.
Is it?
Just noticing, witnessing. The necessity. The beauty of this life, so full of humble, humble moments.
The time we fully spend together.
Mom. And I.
Since you got home, just being in the same space. You folding 包子, wrapped child. I sitting on the high stool sunbathing while typing away at the keyboard. In between moving to the piano to play Fauré.
You on your iPad, reading, lounging on the red leather armchair, waiting for the steaming pork and daikon buns.
We share a meal.
Fluffy. So fluffy. Soft, bouncy, tender. Fragrant fermentation of dough, juicy filling leaking out a big hole in the bottom. We laugh. Still flavourful, the wrapping soaking up all the flavour. A mess. The steaming first bite, again and again.
Vinegar. Lots of vinegar.
“Let’s have some beer.”
I eat slowly. You move on to peanuts. We talk about peanuts, and work, and childhood memories, and everything. The next plans to come home.
“Let’s take a walk.” While it’s warm out.
That sun, that glow. Remaining snow. The open sky. The quiet. Arm in arm we walk our same circle. You lean on me. We talk about anything. We walk in silence. You complain about the same things.
Home. We have a treasure hunt. Clothes and memories. Digging through dresses. Realigning stories. Musing at what can be forgotten and remembered through things.
You have plans for sewing. You actually order a machine.
I am a princess.
We watch princesses. While sipping black sesame. A love of good, a love of kindness, a lure of evil, an attraction to pain. We talk about the movie.
We say goodnight.
Chapter One: Montreal
March 31, 2023
8:16AM Montreal
Strange. So strange to be back here.
The heart wants what it wants. And what do we do when that heart does not want to open? When it already misses home.
I’m never going to forget that hotpot.
Even now reviewing the images, tears pool.
Mom’s smile.
Her happiness.
How she talked about blessedness. Love. How we communicated, shared stories. How she visited such warmth and memories. A family of 4. Gathered. Together.
How we spoke our hearts.
How we honestly acknowledged this most simple, precious moment. How she longed for such humble moments too. Home. Family. 4.
Just the 2 of us. Living, like this.
On these high stools, too high for the island, laughing over how incredibly delicious the cabbage tastes. Bite after bite. How tender the pork daikon meatballs, how soft the tofu, how flavourful the vermicelli.
How tender the moment.
An ending. Of some story so touching. Almost unreal. The setting sun, the remains of the day. The bittersweet denouement. The heart lingering.
I don’t need anything else. I don’t want to talk to anyone else. Simply be here. With mom. Give her all the love, soft fuzzy feelings that she more than deserves, overdue for too long. To take care. Take care of love. What a privilege.
And those eyes holding back tears at the airport. That frozen worn hand giving mine a squeeze. I will never forget, mom.
I love you. Thank you.
Hello, snow.
Nice of you to accompany me here.
Soft sweetness
soft fluffy
hugsA blank tender
canvas
gently veilingmemories with
memories.
April 1, 2023
8:28AM Montreal
Strange. Still strange to be here. To be reminded again. Of the places. The stories. The emotions of those memories. Ready or not. Here they come. The metro stations we’ve walked countless times, now almost disorienting, now what do we notice. The hospital, the green door. The first time, the times in between. Alone, with company, in the rain, in the snow, groceries, end of a day, sunset, sunrise. Dark.
The cedar house. Sitting there, flashing images of who sat with you, where, what did you speak of, how did you feel. How places and things trigger so much energy.
Just in that corner - first, mom dad Darvn, trying tea and whiskey. That time we played Avalon. The time we had homebaked goods. And in that corner, how I gazed from sitting at the piano thinking of some anonymous poet lover, silently conversing under the candlelight. Of Darvn and I trying scarves. Empty recital. So manny days running up that hill.
How we rediscover pieces of ourselves.
How we have emotional capacity for any of this remembering is a curiousity. Miracle. How we have lived. How have we lived. Like I said to you: well done. well done.
The snippets of ourselves we have collected or scattered, they are living on their own mysterious journeys in the universe, sometimes to collide with us again, sometimes not.
Puzzles. Rediscovering pieces of our love is a strange kind of delight. Through others we are seen. Isn’t that literally so? We can’t see ourselves without a reflection, mirror, words, people.
Say, remember. Here is exactly where I want, where I’m supposed to be. Trust. It’s okay. It’s good to miss, to long for. But also exist, here.
Just be here. You are here. How strangely beautiful.
April 2, 2023
8:36AM Montreal
Many lives.
Infinite lives.
”Everyone is really just everyone else.”
To emote: the sudden desire to share, communicate, express. The moments we don’t want to attempt. The laughter that makes our cheeks sore.
Tired.
How do we play or rest to be untired. A marathon called life. Course after course of noticing, surprised, confused, challenged, satisfied.
Everyone’s story becomes stories. Who’s to tell?
We are already us.
So becoming what? Ourselves. In a process that is already true, that we just have to live truthfully, with curious curious perceiving, noticing, and when the moment touches us, share and channel that magic.
That’s all.
Sometimes, someday.
And so, here we go. To the next 20 days of unknown that we absolutely know shall be wondrously magical.
Because…
April 3, 2023
8:07AM Montreal
Walking down that hill.
The end. Endings. Beginnings. When were we arm in arm? How do we magically create new stories that honour the old. Or rather, not create them, but co-create. Listen, hear through allowing and noticing. By staying. By taking time.
Reciprocity of music. Poetry. The trees the notes the attention of wood and people whispering back to us.
You know. Thats the constant of co-creation. The magic.
I could hear your voice. Weaving with mine. Weaving with the sighs of the room - people and furniture and plants. Bright eyes. Gleaming faces. Something.
Repeating to remember.
Being in a familiar space again to recall something. Being touched. Being moved. How we share this space, this everything story, how we exist in the applause and the tiny moments, cracks in between.
Deciding…
Spinach feta wrap and soy latte. A whole series of other selves in that ritual. The countless wanderings linked and grounded by simple threads. Threads we can hold onto, to make sense of certain curiosities. And how we find meaning.
I was moved.
I remember the snow and always need to weep. What is it telling us that is so profoundly anciently moving. That space and silence and stillness within movement.
Remember? That moment with our trees.
Always. Always with us.
Return there to weep. To be blessed by being touched.
April 4, 2023
8:01 AM Montreal
Birdsongs, that announce spring.
Hoppity, on a tree branch, out the window, eye level.
What are we trying to say? However is it when we try to say what we want, we loop around the…point?
A storyteller. What do stories tell us? And our preconceptions.
We co-create because we are responsible for the energy in conversation with that space. How can we remember to see for the first time, feel for the first time, but embrace that mystical sense of memory, familiarity, nostalgia.
The artful skill of forgetting.
Forgetting, (comma), to remember. As in, forgetting in order to remember again.
Freedom from our own expectations, from the dulling of familiarity, the intelligence of expertise. To have a child’s eyes, an amateur’s amazement. Not to assume we know, we know the story, we know what kind of person this is. We’ve already labelled them, we stop paying half the amount of attention.
Let’s keep working on that.
Be patient in our interaction with the world. Humble.
Chapter Two: Toronto
April 5, 2023
8:01AM Nork York
The rhythm of a book.
”Once upon a time”. Big hearts. Big stomachs.
The speed of travel.
130km/h
The listening and hearing.
The witnessing of love from all places and times and histories and in all shapes and forms.
Company.
Chicken wings. Pho. Stories.
A taste that holds a series of memories together. Threads. Emotions that enlarge with attention.
We have lost people. Let go time and again of what is most precious to us. Even destroying them. Forgetting. “Shining too bright”. And then burning. Or blinding.
April 6, 2023
7:34AM Toronto
A day.
Measurement by a day.
Breakfast, journal, yoga, writing, more writing on the car as we journey through thunderstorm, lunch, walk through rain, ridiculous, wild, tattoos, TATTOOS, finding our way back, “dress” rehearsal, as in, finding we have no dress. Stunning dinner with uni and assorted sashimi. Chaos. Run. Intentionality. Fog. Sprint to Winners. T-30 min before concert. Letting moments unfold one after another.
And the sky.
The non-sky.
Everytime we look up, that awe. That thrill you radiate, glittering joy and wonder through the densest darkest fog. Those formidable skyscrapers, literally disappearing into the sky - the blur, fuzz, glow, dark and hazy white, dim lights, moisture, damp wind, a lurking mystery.
Weird. Strange. Most curious. Like we are entranced also by that rabbit, chasing threads of energy around us. This energy that blooms in each other’s presence.
We transform.
And from these wild things we take slow deep breaths, and there is a new, new sense of calm, maturity, letting be of stillness and trust within chaos. Soft words, soft stuffies. And our music grows. It’s growing.
We are part of something wild. Strange.
And afterwards, a simple honouring. Sunflower seeds. Mountain of carcasses. A king on white horse. We laugh like fools.
Chapter Three: Ottawa
April 7, 2023
Ottawa 8:51AM
Places we’ve never been that feel so familiar. Because they’re all held together by some thread, story, that connects us with strangers within ourselves.
Downsview Diner.
The bitter coffee, the hunchback mom and pops. The roadtrip highschool songs we screamed our hearts to. The simplicity of a Subway sandwich at a gas stop.
The freedom.
Memories of a city, of us at a certain time, how we wandered, how we experienced and grew and lived and learned. And loved. Continuously learning how to love.
The parliament tours, the dinners out, the fireworks, the light shows, sitting on the grass, the Korean restaurant, the sushi buffet. Paddling on the canal, walking around the fields. Dad and Darvn. Blessedness in tiny moments where we made effort.
And now, a sky that embraces all that softness. Streaks of cotton candy across the river, glowing behind the majestic parliament, the distant mountains, all with this taste, a kind of peaceful, kind, welcoming back soundtrack. Each moment, the light changing to reveal new magic. The way we chose to see the world. Isn’t that it. That which makes the biggest difference.
To meet ourselves again in this house, along those walks. To share some pieces of what loved us, saved us. And to celebrate everything that needs celebrating together. Marriages, soon-to-be marriages. And me, just here, existing, witnessing.
April 8, 2023
9:23PM Barhaven
Soft. Soft skin, soft light. A pain that twists and cramps inside that must be endured. The only way. Drifting in and out. Bearing. The war inside. All at the same time, soft congee, ginger tea, the kind gentle touch of the sun and the people.
“A lot has happened.”
How else to say it.
We’re here. We’ve travelled across so much … time. Through places and memories we remember to remember.
:||
Superpower of a mark. A physical reminder of our promise.
Everyone has stories. We are connected in the most mysterious ways, our infinite lives, our limitless imaginations. The different worlds we inhabit that suddenly collide and reveal their secrets to us.
Revisiting memories in a physical space. With ‘fresh perspectives.’ A different company, different season, different us. And somehow, the same familiar warmth. Distant yet close, fluttering around the air through the birdsongs, the blue sky, the light and breeze.
Once upon a time, we were here.
That bizarre time travel, thrilling, touching, mysterious. The power of a story or two. The joy in our hearts as each one of us remembers something uniquely personal to ourselves in this shared space.
The ancient memory of these melodies.
They could be whatever you wish them to be, really.
Anything, anywhere, in one single piercing moment.
The simplest moments that don’t always make it into the story. How do we remember those as well?
Chapter Four: New York
April 12, 2023
9:55AM New York
I don’t like it when we don’t follow through.
I don’t like saying words lightly. Making a promise and not keeping it. I don’t like being late. I don’t like when things asked 3 times to be done still are not.
I’d appreciate “no.” “I can’t.” “I don’t want to.”
I sense the irritation accumulating. The little resentments that will trigger the ‘power-off’ button. Not just the space we need. But something else in the details. The habits. Our different ways of being that don’t align in ‘normal’ life.
It’s my own responsibility. How to take ownership of the way I still chose to respond to my immediate surroundings and circumstances without being swayed by the habits of those I love.
But…
Chapter Five: Providence
April 15, 2023
10:11AM Washington DC
Stoic romantic. You called me.
There was the warmest sunset. Summer heat. Summer sundresses. Sitting shotgun. Observing. Company focused intensely yet peacefully on one.
Now the freezing AC. Violin. Pacing above.
Why? Why bother?
So what?
What are we striving to feel?
What do we need? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
It passes so fast when you don’t write it down. But you were in that ‘moment’. Air, you said. Eternity, you said. A bagel, a coffee, sharing stories, time, once upon a time, enjoying the emoting of others. California sun. Aspen stars. Light. Music.
What else happened?
The small hours. Sitting across the desk, talking about books. Across the dining table, talking about distance.
A brief hour.
We’re just here. My heart brain doesn’t want to make any extra effort to remember anymore. But those colours. The flowers blooming. The white, soft pink. The sculpture garden of whimsical failed dreams. Standing and looking across Providence. The water. Campus. A tour. Of some piece of ourselves.
Daily moments could be like this?
Coud never?
Where the fuck are we.
Chapter Six: Washington DC
April 16, 2023
9:23 AM Washington DC
“Fried bread is time.”
Home.
No matter. The melancholy, no, not melancholy. A rhythm. An already forlorn nostalgic blurry happiness of the California sun. No obligations, no work hours. Just wandering. Shopping. Blank. Joy in floating. Things. Messy. Out of sync. Displacement of routines. Allowing to exist in whatever space and time. The peaceful empty quiet.
”Because I care.”
Why do you not care?
Giving up. On what? On trying to achieve something? Learning how to be satisfied yet still driven. That balance. Wanting more yet not being disappointed when we let go.
But I follow through. I deliver. I finish. I hone the final presentation, all the way, until the end. That’s my kind of excellence. No one strips that away. When I’m alone.
But when we’re with people we love, we slack. We’re soft.
But aren’t we living?
Isn’t that what we want to do? To actually live? But where, how? In being lost, distracted, inefficient, … lazy?
I can only idle and lounge around for so long.
I need to reset and gather myself. Through my own rituals, my own grounding acts, thoughts beliefs, clarity, behaviours to honour those beliefs.
“We’ll work it out”, you say.
”Thanks for putting up with me.” I say.
April 17, 2023
8:16AM Washington DC
Toes in the water. Spray of fountains, golden sun. T-shirt dress. Pink. Green surround sound. The joy of a Sunday spent doing what we love.
Laughter, joy, excitement that arises most naturally, instinctively.
Thank you. For always allowing that back.
Cuteness that opens our hearts.
An email letter that makes us smile. Sparkling sake that makes us squeal. Pretty fabrics, crispy fried chicken. And damn. Plain white steamed bun.
That tenderness. The unbearably tender soft fluffy bun. How it deflates and bounces back, rips open into infinite layers of air and fluff and streaks of light foamy flavours of simple milk and sugar. Streaks. Waiting to be tasted. Plain, simple, soft tenderness in a bun.
And how we sit. On the grass. Around the pool. In front of Monet. Monet in Ottawa. Monet in NC. Monet in our living room. We were all there, weren’t we.
Laughter.
Ice-cream. Cherry blossoms.
Breeze by the wharf.
The wanting of something - iced coffee. Gelato. Shoelaces. Moments of remembering. Moments of completely spacing out. On the metro. Looking at three teenagers on their Sunday adventures. That was us too. Drinks, dinner. A tradition of sunflower seeds. Rosé. Bubbles.
A pink, pink day. Once upon.
Chapter Seven: North Carolina
April 18, 2023
7:59AM Apex
The last stop.
Green upon green upon green. We prepare to rest, and to build the next adventure. This home, with new old pieces of a familiar face in a new light.
Filling in past spaces through the now. Stroll around the pond-lake, flipping through old scrapbook pages, gathering around the TV for jeopardy and family traditions. Crunchy chips, homemade daal. Mom and dad’s laughter. Wine and cheers.
A simple life, they say.
We just want you to be happy, they say.
Why won’t you be happy. What’s wrong with you.
What is enough? What is doing and what is living? What are the thrills and what are the gentle dreams. Is peace enough?
A house of memories.
How often did you run from here?
So, next. How would you like to remember? How did you promise to honour in your own way?
Continue to practice, Tong.
Notice in the practicing. The habits of writing, remembering, taking ownership of your time, not through grasping, but through trust. And. Trust needs affirmations.
Remember your people.
Remember to say I love you. I appreciate you. Good morning. Hello. I remember.
Don’t fall into “I wish I did”.
Just do.
What is that? Motivation. Desiring. Following through. Wanting is not the end. It’s barely the start. It’s not the start.
Start. Actually. Continue. Finish.
Send a postcard. Write a letter. Post a photo. Actually follow through with things you love.
April 19, 2023
8:07AM Apex
The peak. Once you get to the peak, then what?
Stay? Look around? Camp out? Come back down? Is the peak the peak if it’s the ground?
Asking beautiful questions in unbeautiful moments.
The discipline of our living.
Discipline in? What we believe in, what we do, what we practice to remember.
The power of encounters, stories, photographs, tastes, memories, really all pieces of building an identity so we could make some sense of connections.
A park. Swings. Childhood flashbacks. A crush. A laugh, silence. Storybook. Anime. Sunflower seeds. The light on a purposefully aimless drive. The sharing of past selves. Sweet tender cuteness. Questions. Realizations. Violin, piano. Strolling. Noticing. Hearing.
Finding language large enough.
Is there ever? No, not large, not precise. Just simple, felt. Befitting the context and capacity of that moment.
Still, it’s still about the trust in the rhythm of the moment.
April 20, 2023
8:21AM Apex
Let.
Let’s.
One word that implies so much. Us, together. Forwards. Do. Dream. Live, go somewhere. Do something. In living, creating. Remembering what we were meant to remember.
Let’s make something.
Slowly, quietly.
Saying hello, saying thank you.
And listen, how the earth responds. Watch the light. The tiniest movement. Individually shuddering leaves together. The wind whispers. All their stories. All the memories, voices, laughter, tears here…Love and grief, joy and gratitude, all at once, overwhelming but not consuming. Powerfully moving, humbling, reminding you to cry for them. Cry for life.
Head on ground. Kneeling. Face in the earth. Really, touching. Bowing down. Feeling the dirt, the the grass. Warmth of sun on back. But no sight, no light. Breathing, in this cocoon.
Peace, that one day we get to. We finally get to return to this earth. All this movement and noise. Isn’t it all so we could learn the stillness within movement, so we can be the tree, be the dirt, the moss, the air.
Infinitely accepted and connected…witnessing, listening. And here and there, offering some sweetly tender undefinable memory to the next stranger passing by.
Hello.
Thank you for pausing here.
Not knowing. Where we are, where we’re going.
Just noticing. Paying attention to the lives and stories unfolding here, whatever they’re willing and ready t share.
Winston-Salem.
Because, you said it made you who you are.
Because, you are still saying thank you.
Because, you say it with such tenderness and love.
Because, you have, are bringing to life its blessings to be noticed again and again.
So that we are capable of entering such a portal to other worlds.
How else could we access or feel such profound memories?
Or perhaps it’s the constant practice of opening, no matter whose foreword or introduction we read or do not read. Everything has been touched. Really. Everything has been touched by someone, something, the air, the wind, sun, a hand, a hammer, a thought, a wish, a prayer, a glance. Everything.
That’s the connection of all stories.
The one poem.
We are all really just writing the one poem. We are really finding the same answers no matter how differently we see the world. That is the togetherness. We were all here. We have all understood. We can all remember. We can all remember. Always remember.
If we visit these places.
Let.
Trust in the rhythm of each moment.
Live, for now.
April 21, 2023
8:57 AM Apex
Here we are again. “It’s that again, isn’t it”.
At the beginningend. Da Capo. Derperderpderp.
^_^
XD
Still derping. Still living and laughing and eating and creating and writing and feeling and being our stupud little selves.
What a blessing it is to see again. To look in the corners and be absolutely stunned, amazed. Have you noticed that before? Have you seen that man, heard his voice? Have you noticed the pattern of the carpet, the green outside the window, the colours of rooftops?
How absolutely bizarre, bewildering.
It’s not about the fear of ‘missing out’. It’s the thrill that there are endless ways to notice, discover. So, just repeat. The peace in acceptance, that in no way is apathy or giving up, but the contentment and satisfaction with our limitations.
Our beautiful limitations in time, energy, bodies, living. In repeating. Both mistakes and love. In our stupud, inexhaustible human engineering to … to desire again.
Joy and sorrow, love and grief, simultaneously in the mystical passing of things, energies, of time and spirits and collective memories and unconscious somehow brings us to that place to desire again.
As long as we live, it will be there somewhere.
Otherwise, we can chose to leave, of course.
Everything has been said and done, sure. But we can chose to play a part in the remembering. In carrying on the memories.
Press play.
For now, trust. If you’re still here, being. Being blank or empty or void or whatever. You’ll still get to :|| da capo.
You’ll find joy in desiring, again.
April 22, 2023
2:52PM Raleigh
Funny things to cry to.
Void.
White that contains everything in the light. All the colours. Our superpower - the capacity to be an empty vessel. To channel energies through. Storylisteners. Witnesses. Embodying bursting emotions and then, blank.
The blank.
The void.
Does it matter what draws us back?
Like a necessity. Because someone calls us, needs us? Yes, but no. Because of softness or tenderness? Sometimes. Because of art, music? Not always. Because of remembering? Remembering what? The things I like, the people I like, the tastes, touch, warmth. Remembering how that felt like? How the desiring of that felt like?
Or is that all too tiring. To try to figure it out.
Maybe just rest. Just let. Just be void. Just wait. Patience in trust. Kindness in trust, you said.
So first, is it kindness?
How to be truthful to something we don’t feel. Yet we’re supposed to feel?
What calls us back? Our names? A loved one? Ice cream? Fluffy bun? Beethoven? Suddenly - softening, crying. Feeling bad, guilty for hurting someone? Not always.
Meh.
Whatever.
Forget.
So we can remember again. Wow.
Something always ends up moving us.
This is true.
Allow being blessed.
Let’s take it from the top. Da capo. :||
“Through story and reading and writing, and music, we are able to be in community across time and space.
When you really listen to someone. They act differently.
And most people aren’t used to being heard.
We all want to be heard.
Music is a way to let out our inner emotional life
In a way that can’t be understood in any other way
Things that I notice, rather than things I know.
Things that are fleeting that are too great to be understood
It happens without you realizing it’s happening.
The magic, the shock. It’s there.
What are the things I find beautiful that I didn’t notice today?
Intentional awareness
Nurturing creativity
Awareness needs constant refreshing.
That is the point of habits and rituals
Practice staying tuned in.
We don’t have to convince anyone of anything.
We just have to enjoy what we enjoy.
All the stories.”