I get the strangest sensation this time of year. Everyone scatters from town, heads to their various hills and valleys for the requisite week of family visits, mutters "see you next year, then". And there is this lull as each day could be Thursday...oh, it's Saturday then, is it? No wonder the mail didn't come.

It's like reaching the end of a phrase of music and noticing the repeat sign at the end of the bar, or like extending one's leg fully at the bottom of a bicycle pedal rotation. Pendulum motion results in a momentary stillness as momentum catches up with itself and becomes suspended in midair.

Swept up, hovering above the swing at the height of its extension. I feel weightless.

In this week of each-day-is-Saturday, I am hovering and I feel separate from other people--like I could run into people I spoke with just last week who now forget who I am. I know it's my loss of connection, not theirs. I am surprised when someone nonchalantly calls me by my name.

Of course, come January 2nd the phone calls will start up, I'll be back to my email inbox, and the momentum created in the past year will give me another push on the swing-- and in the whizzing forward motion, I'll feel my weight again.

notebook entry #16--October 23rd, 2003

I just had the most spectacular weekend...

I went to the Ontario Council of Folk Festivals'Annual Conference in Sudbury, Ontario for four days of hanging out with my peers, meeting all sorts of industry folk, getting the warm fuzzies with fellow passionates for the ballad, and playing impromptu music jams till all wee hours in the lobby of the Ramada Inn (till the muzac came on thru the overhead speakers & it was time to crawl home to my billet).

In addition to great showcases (artists like joel kroeker, who played an incredible set), there were workshops & one-on-one mentorship meetings, on-the-fly 'showcases' held in stairwells, hotel rooms & elevators, and much supportive/friendly chit-chatting with people from all aspects of the music biz. Now, I went to another festival/conference in Toronto last June, and while I in no way am dissing the vibrancy of a pop gathering, people at this folk fair seemed more interested in discovering an artist's unique potential than discovering, say, the next big radio hit. A joy for me, queen of the not-for-commercial-radio song.

Anyone reading this who loves roots music or plays roots music or in some way works with roots music, check this thing out! It has inspired me to work and to play harder.

Thank you fellow delegates to the love-in of the year.

And on Sunday, after the festivities ended, I had a great greasy breakfast with a couple of new friends at Gonga's on the corner of Paris & Grady. Sadly, there was no coleslaw.

I've posted pics from the weekend in the photo gallery...

notebook entry #15--August 3rd, 2003

The bird has been a powerful symbol for me for as long as I can remember. Years ago, I tattooed one on the inside of my thigh--an imaginary bird sportings streams of multi-coloured feathers, and curly tendrils emanating from the tuft of its neck. Sometimes it looks like a bird of paradise, other times it's more of a peacock.

Shortly after I decided to call my new EP Bird, I saw the documentary Winged Migration at the Cumberland Theatre in Toronto. Lovely bit of synchronicity, eh. If you haven't yet, I recommend you see it. It's a beautiful hour and a half meditation in the act of being what you are. And in the case of geese and storks and such, that being is flying...because you must. Pressing face into the wind. Sparse in its voice-overs, the film shows the relentless forward motion of the birds, in sky and on land. And maybe it was the orchestral swelling of the music, but I admit I did get misty sitting before the grace of these creatures (I giggled, though, when I noticed that geese in the air do, in fact, look like bowling pins with wings).

When I was younger, I often had flying dreams. Well, not so much flying as jumping off tall buildings...two miles up in the air--and diving, driving, skydiving downward. The wind whistling ferociously past my face. With a sense of panic that I was falling too quickly, and certainly to my death. But at the last second, I figure out how to achieve loft--and I spread my arms, and I swoop upwards again. Flying.

notebook entry #14--June 27th, 2003

I'm quite enjoying the recent influx of emails I've been receiving from folks.

It reminds me how strange that I can go about my business of playing music--often bobbing about in my own bubble, oblivious to the impact that I have on others. Sometimes I forget that I am actually making contact with the world. Such a basic tenet, this interconnectedness. The concept that: you breath out, I breath in. I breath out, you breath in.

Sometimes when I'm emptying out the fridge and I find a plastic yoghurt container full of moldy, stinking leftovers, my first impulse is to chuck the whole digusting mess away--Idon't want to deal with that crap...such a bother to empty, rinse & recycle it. And, I confess sheepishly, sometimes I do simply throw it out (especially when I've let the fridge contents pile up for awhile). But you know, when I do that--I shrink a little. After all, I'm dumping it on you.

notebook entry #13--May 16th, 2003

Got the back tire fixed. Got my bicycle rolling. And, suddenly it's spring!

I should probably pay more attention to the road when I ride my bike, but I experience biking more like meditating or flying. The world around me, the cars and delivery trucks that weave in and out of my way, the people walking in slow motion in the opposite direction like a crane shot in a music video...all that visual and audible noise fades. I focus instead on the quietness of my breathing, the golden warmth on my cheeks & the slick, watery coolness of the wind rushing over my face. I sure like my bicycle.

I sing to myself as I ride. I invent new tunes, new words, new sounds from my throat. My voice beams out into the world; I add my noise to the streets--and I hope it brings happiness and surprise to strangers as I whizz by.

notebook entry #12--April 14th, 2003

Last Thursday I arrived home from a show in Kingston to find my next door neighbour's house had burnt down.

I had parked down the street a bit, was walking towards my place lugging a guitar in each hand (no roadies at this point in my musical career). As I approached the walk way to my house, I saw the blackened walls and support beams neatly tied up in yellow caution tape. The word "fire" didn't immediately register. Instead, I walked back across the street (guitars still in tow) towards two people sitting on their porch catching the first rays of spring. "When did that happen?", I ask quietly. "Oh," I nod when they respond: "Yeah, burnt down Tuesday night".

I step over charred boards that litter my walkway--discarded (I imagine) by the firefolk who, after determining these remnants to be free of embers and not likely to swirl up into flames again, redirected their attention back to the bigger, more imminent fire ball next door.

Almost a week later...despite the ten person clean-up crew that throughly scrubbed the place from top to bottom with sweet smelling disinfectants...my apartment still smells like a leaky woodstove in great need of replacement. No longer airtight, smoke & creosote have infiltrated my space, invisible to the eye or to touch until I wipe the surface of my desk with a wet cloth. Black water oozes from the cloth & fills the bucket. Oddly, it's almost pleasant: reminiscent of a nestled cabin in the depths of winter--the blueish snow, and crisp streams of frozen breath from one's mouth, warmed by the orange blaze safely contained in an iron bin. But, I find am headachy & slightly nauseous...and weirded out by the closeness of tragedy.

Just so you know, nobody was hurt in the fire...though sadly the folks next door lost everything. My stuff, however, survived the blaze. This is a minor miracle, since our two houses are attached. The shared wall is damaged, but the fire decided not to enter my building but to head the other way instead. The two houses to the other side suffered damage, especially on the top floors. You can't see much from the outside, but I'm sure it's a mess inside the buildings. It's strange to think I could have so easily lost all my work, all my photos, all my bits of paper with phone numbers & scribblings in a few short hours to fire or water damage.

notebook entry #11--March 11th, 2003

So, it's working out to be about a month or so between these scratchings. And what is so amazing is how did that month go by so fast? I say: "Gee, that time flew by." Like time is wind whipping up snowdrifts and scattered newspaper pages--getting snagged around my legs, twirling concentrically around my body & taking strands of loose hair as it dances away in front of me. Somehow the passage of time does not embed itself solidly into my awareness, but instead floats past me like gentle pressure on my back, or is a swimmer bobbing up and down just at the surface of the lake in the heatwaves of July.

It's almost as though I'm living in the present these days.

notebook entry #10--February 16th, 2003

Sometimes I float over the days. I smile maniacally at strangers; I skip through the streets in stringent pursuit of joy...oblivious to everyday horrors & newspaper headlines and my own questionable behaviour.

And sometimes I subconsciously (but purposefully) disconnect from my feelings of right...because listening to them can be painful and lonely. To come to terms with one's inherent sense of morality is always a solitary pursuit.

Still, today I'm a little less lonely. I am reading in the Toronto Star today about city after city of demonstrations that happened Feb 15th across the world--the millions of people stirred to say 'this war must not happen'. And I re-experience the elation and connection I felt yesterday as I walked among 100,000+ people down University Avenue, millions of people worldwide. I feel like thanking every single person for sharing the streets with me. Funny, eh? Maybe it's selfish to say, but I feel safer, more part of the world knowing that other people want peace too.

notebook entry #9--January 21st, 2003

For those of you in Southern Ontario this past weekend, such a storm, eh?

Though I suppose now the word "storm" implies tumultuous wind thrashing tree branches about and ice pelts stinging skin (even indoors and despite the protective coat of livingroom windows.)

Winter late 90's: Ice Storm--I saw the movie; I missed the weather event. That winter, I was holed up at my farm with woodstove & provisions such as coffee & nachos fixings...if I hadn't been listening to the CBC that day, I might never have known the extent of what happened. Even now--it's weird--I don't feel part of the Southern Ontario Ice Storm Experience. A defining Canadian moment, and I missed it.

This past weekend though, the storm was gentle. Large crystal flakes landed softly on each other, wedged themselves up higher.

I'm so very glad we decided not to drive the 401 Sunday night. On Monday morning, the ditches along the highway were strewn with cars and trucks. I have a snapshot image in my head of two huge transport trucks straddling the center median--perpendicular to the traffic flow. The second truck had stopped sliding a mere five or so feet behind the first. In slow motion, I imagined replaying the event with slighly less friction.