On this “bookend” date, I thought it appropriate to launch my songwriting attempt to reconcile with political history still unfolding…
I didn’t know…
I didn’t know that I’d record this song. I didn’t know that I’d pair this footage with it.
I did know that my father was entering palliative care. I was on my way home to see him. I didn’t really understand that this would be my last bridge crossing, from Detroit to Windsor, while he was still alive. I saw that the rain was beautiful, on the windows of the cab.
For many years, Dad had picked me up from the Detroit airport.
I knew to say these things to him.
“on the line”
Years ago, my father told me of the summer he worked “on the line” at Chatham Steel — across from his father. Dad told me of the oil baths that his father would dunk the molten steel into — after the formed metal parts came out of a pounding press. My grandfather was very deaf, by the time I knew him, because of that pounding noise. Dad said that when he looked up one day, at that factory, and saw his father’s face drenched in oil an sweat, he knew “why he drank.”
braving making content
Exploring songs, by other writers, playing out, experimenting… all in service of making new work.
Always a vulnerable exercise — I can admit that it takes courage and a willingness to engage with the opinions of others. I’m so grateful I’m feeling strong enough to do it again.
performing again
Building the muscle of performing again. Little by little… I know I’m not alone in recognizing that performance is a “muscle”, metaphorically speaking, that needs to be maintained.
156 weeks, 4 days
I miss my Dad. He passed away on January 31st, 2020. Three years ago today.
About six weeks after his passing — the world changed. He didn’t have to go through all of that.
I’m grateful we could celebrate his life together — at a large extended family gathering — before the pandemic descended. I’m grateful I could sing “for him” at that celebration.
Dad’s family was “salt of the earth” — Irish, Canadian. Amazing people. So proud to bear the same last name.
Back Row: Uncle Chuck, Uncle Pat, Edmond (Dad), Uncle Dave,
Front Row: Aunt Marg, Grandma, Grandpa, and Aunt Rose.
title track “Totem”
I flirted with the idea of calling it Totem (Titanic). Ultimately, I did not. It’s a song that “appears” to be about the fated musicians who played on the HMS Titanic. It is not. It’s about my feeling that my own “musical ship” is sinking. In truth; it is not.
What it is is me, in an unprecedented way, exalting a song and statement of my own. (How dare I point a finger to work in this way?) No. This is me daring to give voice to a part of myself that longs to be heard — a personification of “I sing what I can’t say.” And I answer the song’s final question by uttering the question, “Who am I playing this for?”
Like those musicians, knowing they were about to die, I dare say, “I play this for me.”
minutes, hours, days
Again, in this construct of a new year, I ever more carefully commit to the minutes, hours, and days.
“It’s only when we truly know and understand that we have a limited time on earth — and that we have no way of knowing when our time is up — that we will begin to live each day to the fullest as if it was the only one we had.”
Elisabeth Kübler-Ross
what became “Totems”
This body of work, Totems, took a long time. Many obstacles to overcome — but the songs are here now. I’m grateful I had the courage, little by little, to put the pieces together. Thanks always to Ian Hattwick for helping me through it all.
Now comes the hard work of putting it out there.
a letter from Mom
This is a letter my mother wrote to me, when I was 16, which I publish here on Mother’s Day. I do this, with courage and vulnerability — and to honor her.
listen well —
and let the silence reign.
Listen well — and let the silence rain.
Sometimes the hardest thing to do is to simply listen. It may not feel like it does any good. It may feel as though things just go around in circles… but there is some comfort, for the speaker, in being listened to — and even more comfort in them feeling they are heard.
I was given the gift of this quote, years ago, by my father. He had it drawn, in black ink, as a handmade piece of calligraphy. Dad then framed it for me and it has hung, on my wall for years, as a reminder of what Dad must have felt was the best way he could say these things to me.
These words are by the great Canadian novelist Margaret Laurence.
“If this were indeed my Final Hour, these would be my words to you. I would not claim to pass on any secret of life for there is none, or any wisdom except the passionate plea of caring. Try to feel, in your heart’s core, the reality of others. This is the most painful thing in the world, probably, and the most necessary. In times of personal adversity, know that you are not alone. Know that although in the eternal scheme of things you are small, you are also unique and irreplaceable as are all of your fellow humans everywhere in the world. Know that your commitment is above all to life itself.”
what I used to do;
— I used to sheepishly assume that other people’s opinions were more valid, or more important, than my own.
— I used to doubt my self-worth based on hearing “mostly nothing” in response to my work.
— I used to question “my voice”, as a songwriter, when that internal voice was the one I most needed to listen to — the one I most needed to trust.
No more.
Paul Zollo Review
“She writes the kind of songs people say nobody writes anymore. The kind of songs written by the greatest of the great singer-songwriters – songs with uniquely poetic lyric wed to gorgeous melodies, songs in which both the words and the music are equally inventive and inspired.”
for Dad
The varnish on the railing is worn away
where you put your hand as you brace yourself
to take the stairs.
It’s an exercise in will, through pain, that you do with
the effort of every weakening muscle in your body —
bone-on-bone in your knees.
I remember how strong you were.
One of my most visceral memories — as a child;
You took me in your arms
and skated me around the arena rink.
I felt the almost scary thrill of speed
as your muscles propelled us around that blur of white space —
your momentum making my skate blades glide hot over the ice
in a way that I had never felt before
and never since.
dinosaur wings
the sun streamed in like a white blanket of light
and you said — “how do we possibly do all the stuff we do
when we end up feeling so worn and torn?”
and the particles of dust floated in the air
like slow-moving meteors and tiny feathers suspended
but still moving
and I watched your breath propel them as you said
“it feels like the summer is over even though it’s just beginning.”
and we pondered how many dinosaur wings we’ve flown upon
not like magical dragons — but like the muck of oil that
they’ve turned into
and about how selfish we are — always wanting more.
none of it added up to much
no conclusion
no — ah-ha — no grand truth.
just the sun streaming in and then a simple question,
“what do you want to do now?”
- Dinosaur Wings hear paula read: Dinosaur Wings 1:00