I left a dreary Calgary indeed last week. The flowers were but a hint on the wind and the leaves newborn. I came back to the crapapples in bloom, with their stunning pink blossoms that seem so replete, so heavy in fertile dreams, that it is a wonder how the branches support their sumptuousness. I walked this morning in that heady fragrance that only the Mayday can sigh out as easily as the wind whispers on my cheeks. Despite still having a cold, the scent seems to permeate the entirety of my being and I feel as if I am immersed in the wholeness of such beauty. The smell seems to sit within me, I feel it behind my eyes and in my throat, as if my whole body were soaking up the delicate fragrance, rather than just my nose. The hills have overflowed in grasses and life, and somehow seem vaguely feminine in their soft curves, hippy in sensual delight. I love to walk on such days, through the spring and all its richness, weaving in and out of the sighing pleasures of sweet grasses and intoxicating flowering trees. The warmth is soft, as soft as the welcoming bosom of the verdant knolls and crevices that just call to be explored. 

The Toronto release was all that I could have hoped, and I hope much and often ~smile~. The night always seems to go by so quickly and all I have are these fleeting moments that come and go as the grass dancing on the winds. The foreboding hum of the bass as he bows a note that seems to resonant within the fibers of my body to start off Drift. The percussive taps as the piano traces the sorrows of Orpheus in Eurydice. The trickling clarity of the harp, piercing through my singing reverie to punctuate, to soothe, to smooth out all the rough edges. The candles burning bright, picking up the dying vestiges of the sun, the warmth of it all, resonating out, aching as my face is flushed, while that one drop of sweat slides so easily down my back, a momentary consciousness amidst the running thoughts, the music that washes through and around me. I forgot how much I LOVE to do acoustic sets. I received an email from Sharlene later, saying "it was magical", and that is the sum of all that can be said. It was magical. From the wine celebrating, to the chocolate that sits as sweetly as victory on the tongue, to the people, bright within the circle of my awareness. It was beauty. There is not much more that I can ask from an audience, from a night, from a celebration, and a celebration it most certainly was. 

All too soon it is over and the last of the chairs has been piled, while the smell of smoke fills my senses as the candles are all blown out. All to soon the hugs are done, the voice fading within the last hurrahs of the room and it feels empty again, ready for new voices, for new memories, for new songs. All too soon I am in a darkened car, driving on the highway with my sleepy daughter in the back seat, my thoughts retracing the candles and the notes, replaying the words that feel so familiar on my lips, as if they knew the shape of such thoughts already. I look in the back at my daughter whose eyes still light with the wonder of it all. Sleep not quite on the edge of her, the humming of the night still hovering around her. I see her eyes drifting to the darkened shapes beneath the amber streetlights, the hum of the highway. I see what is familiar to me. How many times did I sit in a darkened car and feel the night press against my skin? How many times have I felt the images settle down within me, the songs, the memories shuffling through my mind to find their place within the blurry painting that seems to define the experiences of my life? Too many times to count. Too many times when all that there is, is the sound of the tires endlessly rolling on concrete while the shapes of nights past whiz past my window, a smeared photograph, little moments pressed between the pages of the mind that are as jumbled as a journal with no beginning, no end and no dates. This has formed the shape of my life, though I hardly recognize that thought until now. I have been to places beyond my own cognition, places that are but a pointed emotion now, where I remember shapes and trees, feelings of places with no names. They are not centered anywhere within me, but seem to float as easily as a feather on the water on the surface of my memories. I started touring when I was 13, too young to care about placenames, but old enough to remember the shape of the night, and the feeling of it's soft lips upon mine as I stare out the window, letting the hot lights, the applause fade behind me as the miles go on and on. The music though, never fades.



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