If you have begun to wonder where I have been — I return to you today. My winter has been scattered with work and play, both of these have required a certain type of brain energy that leaves me very tired by midday. My November was twenty days away from home as I embarked on a songwriter tour from Alberta to British Columbia and back through. I saw the mountainside before and after an avalanche, I listened to the prairie wind howl, the sky-like space that rolls between each ocean wave, I sang for my supper, I sang for strangers, some of whom became friends. I visited nightly the notes between my lungs and guitar as if every broken moment was meant to lead me here. If you asked me of the hardest hill to climb in doing such a thing, I would speak of how I missed the early morning coffees at home and the way thoughts have time to gather and conclude when you're not on the road. As you ride the highway, you think often, but you don't have the hours free to make much sense. You know as the wheels roll, you are on your way to a new town with new faces but you don't yet know what they will think of you and what you will be thinking when you fall to your pillow at night.



