digging through piles of notebooks and journal entries this morning,  it amazes me how far back the traces of plum coulee are found .

borrowing an excerpt from a letter i wrote to my dear friend dan miles  :

_____________________________            may,  2008  .     ___________________________________

dan,

i’ve been inspired to no end the last few weeks by this fantastic book called wheels across montana’s prairie ..

first hand accounts of the pioneers & families of eastern montana .  it’s a rare compilation..   only a few books
in print, telling these incredible stories … heartbreakingly beautiful .

and it’s now becoming the pull for my next record . this line specifically :

‘  plum coulee was where we picked wild sweet peas and searched through the old dumping grounds for
interesting things  ‘ .

_________________________________________________________________________________

sometimes it’s the smallest thing that catches our attention,  and holds it , for long periods of time …
for entire seasons, even .

that one simple, delicate line about plum coulee, a valley in eastern montana,  struck a deep chord in me .

…  where we picked wild sweet peas and searched through the old dumping grounds for
interesting things .

the stories i read from those early days in montana,  the findings of beauty midst the wrestling, felt so parallel to my own
wrestlings and findings …   and ultimately, gave me a sense of richness and solace in writing my own story .

the collection of songs began to take shape,  including tales indicative of the place and time of early eastern montana .   but also a telling my own histories that i had yet to share  .   of my divorce,   finding my way through depression,  of family secrets and  love lost .   and especially the beauty to be found in brokenness .

and so,   each of these songs are a story of their own,  gathered and chosen for the whole of the plum coulee collection .

one  in which i hope, with all of me,  you too will find richness and solace  .

helena, montana .    photo by andrew shepherd .

writing writing .

it doesn’t cease to amaze me that as writers of any sort we fill notebooks, only to have more to say & more notebooks to fill . it seems simple . but it’s actually entirely remarkable . that you – & i – have this ability to create . bringing something to life that wasn’t there even a half hour ago .

recently i read the war of art by steven pressfield and came to the conclusion i needed to sit with the piano and a blank notebook every day . for as long as i needed to sit there . at least an hour . most times longer .
even if i don’t feel like it .

every day’s different . sometimes i play old hymns & let the beauty of their words wash over my skin … & some days i play through songs i’ve already written . some days i dive into writing something entirely new … spilling all over the page and piano keys . but every time i keep that agreement to

sit
be still
listen
play
listen some more …

new ideas come .   new pathways unfold . songs are brought to the initial place of being birthed . it’s not magic . it’s dedication to the craft . & as artists we absolutely owe it to ourselves, to our imagination, to our growth and to the craftsmanship of our art to recognize what a gift it is to create .

and then to actually do it .

to stick with it with a furious devotion .

k .

lecture over .

all lectures end with a hug .

a