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The bone and leaf of autumn

David Curtis

Back to the bone and leaf, the feather and the song. Back to the wind’s premonitions, the water and the stones.  My mind has been like the minnows, darting and dispersing - when I want to be the turtle in the sun, holding silence. I want to conquer time, or forget time, or rebel against the world in which I live. A world made by victors and destroyers; I am the daughter of barbarians and kings, peasants and pilgrims and soldiers. I am from everywhere and nowhere all at once. 

I try to be where I am, between the rivers. I belong to this place, yet it has taken me months to settle back into its arms. I have felt awkward here, I’ve resisted and resented the season’s intensity, the dogged procession of summer days.

I have overseen unwarranted accountings, taken note of countless imperfections, drew plans for reclamation. I wrote the lines:

Now as I find each hidden gem

I wonder: can I hold it with open hands?

They were never mine, never mine—— 

One morning an autumn glow arrives, altering the landscape by degrees. It finally rains again, starting after nightfall and changing everything. I hear a wise woman speak of “embracing your life”; the phrase stays in my mind and I try and try. I build a fire, watch and listen. The wheel turns. 

Dark Eyes

David Curtis

From near the top of Snyder Mountain I’m rejoicing today - the sky is clear again. I can walk outside and let the sun warm my skin. Temperatures have risen to the 30’s (yesterday it was 9 degrees F) and the beautiful, bountiful snow is melting. For one accustomed to Tennessee’s fair autumns, this fall in the Colorado mountains has been a precipitous wintertime. 

Perched in thin air

Like a dreaming hummingbird

I try to defy the four directions —

I’ve been writing clumsy poetry, sometimes becoming song, and taking lots of walks in the woods with my young canine charge (an exuberant Golden Retriever) named Chase. There are moments when the sun shines so brilliantly through the Pines, illuminating every single needle, that I feel that unique, internal happiness I have only known alone in wild places. 

—-I wake in the night

A glacial wind caressing my face — 

Those transcendental moments of bliss are fleeting, and somehow, always unexpected. The days are short and nights are long already. And for those of us who keep an eye on migrating planets, the fact that Venus has been retrograde since October 5 is no small matter. She will turn “direct” again November 16. 

Apparently, of all the planets Venus retrogrades the least. And when the planet of love, beauty, the arts (to name a few) retreats like this, some of us really feel it. 

During this current retrograde period, Venus became invisible to the naked eye on October 18th, departing as the night sky’s Evening Star and reemerging as the Morning Star eight days later. From an astrological/symbolic perspective, Venus’ disappearance marked her descent into the Underworld. A prime time to visit with our shadows.  

I have read so many great reports around this subject. There’s some fascinating connections to the Sumerian goddess Inanna, considered the most ancient pre-cursor of Venus. Her famous legend recounts an underground descent, subsequent battle and resurrection — a direct analogy to the “star’s” disappearance/reappearance. 


Grew up singing underground

Drifting off every night

To those sad, faraway sounds 

I spent so much time

I spent so much of my life

Dreaming of 

the sunlight

Instead of just

feeling it —— 

During this time, and the course of my own underworld journey, the lyrics to an old song of mine kept resurfacing. From the album Luminous, “Dark Eyes” (opening lines above) was inspired by a series of dreams I had — in which I was living, struggling, fighting for something important, all in an underground world. 

The dream’s subterranean location seemed to be somewhere between the farm where I grew up (on one side of the Holston River) and the older, original farm in our family called “Chesterfield”. Along the winding road to get from one to the other you must cross the river on an old concrete bridge and pass by the Mascot Zinc Mines. 

“Mine: an excavation made in the earth for the purpose of extorting ores, coal, precious stones, etc.”

My father’s mother was from the coal mining town of Jellico, on the TN/KY border, and there remain in operation lime and zinc mines all around where I grew up. I’m not certain how these facts influenced my subconscious, but they surely settled in some way. 

Dark Eyes, Dark Eyes

Do you still like

what you see?

Dark Eyes, Dark Eyes

will you wait

a little longer

for me?

From the distance of more than a decade, I can see now that when I wrote this song I was in some way addressing a part of my fractured self, a stranded self, so far underground we could only communicate in dreams. In song. I think it was just the beginning. 

I continue to travel to shadowlands, I continue to reclaim. 

Over the eons Venus will continue to disappear. And reappear, renewed. In our own lives, maybe there are always emerging opportunities to make these internal journeys…and the most precious treasure we can ever bring back is our own restored sense of self-worth. Our wholeness. 

The reclamation may be never-ending.

But the Morning Star always returns. 


In closing I’ll leave you with some old and new…

A link to the recording of “Dark Eyes” —-

(Also found on this site’s Music page)

And a snippet from a new poem 

threatening to become a song: 

— And sometimes I was

the speechless swan

Waiting for a resurrection

Black as the sparkling water

Of her pond — 

May we all find ways to rediscover, reclaim, and heal — whatever is aching inside of us. 


Look For Me

David Curtis

I am one of those people who cherish the sighting of any hawk, anywhere, anytime. Spotting a hawk of any variety — in flight, perched on a fence, being bullied by a crow in some comic dance above the tree line — can instantly remind me of freedom, strength, patience, the value of a message, the value of perspective, the value of wildness in a world with less and less of it.

Years ago, I remember meeting one of my father’s good friends when I came back to the farm and was starting to raise laying hens. He was a chicken expert and was always raising different heritage breeds; I gathered he was a bird watcher too. I walked up to them talking in the yard one day, and my dad said, “Jennifer, you need to meet Richard. He loves birds like you do.” Richard asked me what my favorite bird was. I instantly said, “I probably love hawks more than anything” — to which Richard replied in a serious huff, “Well, now that’s where we differ!”

I hadn’t been back long enough then to know the heartbreak of losing half a dozen good sized hens, in one day, to a pair of Red-Tails. 

Loving hawks and raising chickens is an education in accepting both the wild and domestic — aligning with both, caring for both and not stopping just because things get messy. I didn’t know Tosha Silver’s powerful phrase “Radical Acceptance” back then, but there were certainly times when that is exactly what I was reaching for. Was there a sacred space in the center of the world, where I did not have to divide my heart? 


Over the past six months I have twice journeyed back to the farm in Tennessee where I grew up and have spent most of my life. Late spring I booked shows on the way through Texas, where my mother is from, planning an important detour through Galvaston so that I could visit my great-grandmother’s grave in nearby Hitchcock, Texas. As I sat under the Live Oak trees by her humble plaque and considered the life of Leety Ann Rogers Colwell, I found myself overwhelmed by gratitude, love. 

How different our lives have been. 

I stayed in East Tennessee for most of the month of May (as well as two weeks in August), each time giving the bulk of my attention to my extended family there. I welcomed back the lightning bugs and took as many walks to the river at twilight as I could. 

Now back again in the mountains of Colorado, I’m still sifting through all the experiences that collided on those visits. So many hearts make up a family. I keep holding within my own heart the belief that love will have its way in the end. 

May 9, 2018 — At Riverplains. 

Some stars are paired up in the sky, others stand alone. Or so it appears from here. 

To the west soft strips of cloud hang low above the river. A light fog has blanketed the bottom land. I’m sitting on the steps outside what was once my grandmother’s bedroom, just after midnight. Surrounded by decades of farm history. Surrounded by decades of farm junk. I hear horses tear new grass from the ground. 

My father started planting corn today. I noticed the feeling of “rightness” that came when I saw that. When I checked on my horse I was happy to see the patch on his rump had the faintest, smallest hair follicles returning. The swan couple between the granary and the pond still have their two goslings, the other three eggs unhatched. My nephew Skyler showed me how to look at the nest without provoking the parents. He reminded me of last year’s tragedy with the swan family. One of the babies had been killed by a snapping turtle; the one left behind had died from sadness. We agreed that both must be terrible ways to die.


Two years ago I abandoned the idea of abandoning my dreams. I knew without a doubt that if I didn’t pursue music as my life’s work again I would suffer immeasurably — maybe I would even die of sadness. Knowing full well that the path I was choosing would have its own measure of suffering as well.

Suffering aside, this past summer has been full with the joy of covering new ground. Tour dates took me to New Mexico, Wyoming, and Montana in particular. Oh how I love experiencing these strange and beautiful places. I remain deeply grateful for the opportunity to see and feel the uniqueness, the vastness of the American West. The wildness that remains.

Just as I remain grateful for hawks and butterflies, hummingbirds, bears, foxes, antelope, deer, elk...all the countless wild creatures who must somehow contend with our world. And keep being who they are anyway, as best they can. 

Somehow we are on this journey together.

I’ll close for now with lyrics to one of my new songs from new territory, called “Look for Me” —

If I called out to you

would you listen? 

The moon in the sky’s

no longer hidden


Torn upon arrival

between the old and new —

Was it shadows growing darker

or the grey before dawn? 


Did you look

for me?


Oh the line right down the middle

that’s where you disappear

And there you bear the silence

like a clock without hands


But there are fires you don’t give up on

Things for which you’ve paid

Sacrifice surviving

some promises you made...


Now the days are getting longer

I’m going to the edge

Where the end meets the beginning


Look for me

Look for me





David Curtis

On my last solo-journey, the one I tagged #desertdreams, I spent a couple of weeks driving to and through parts of the Great American Desert. It was another step in learning the art of being free -- to becoming a woman who lives by her own soul's laws and desires.

Perhaps the first female artist I encountered who inspired me in this way was Joni Mitchell, through her music. Not long after that I learned of Georgia O'Keefe; through her artwork, and through photographs of her life in New Mexico, I saw a picture of a woman who was powerful, connected to the land around her, and free.

I never stopped being inspired by these women, among others. I did allow life to take me down some side-streets.

One little detour can easily amount to a decade. And decades aren't nearly as long as we think they might be, especially when we're young. I remember my grandmother George Lucille, my father's mother, telling me in her last days, "It goes so fast, Jennifer. It all goes so fast, the blink of an eye. I wish I could go back and do it again"...I was in my early twenties. I knew she was speaking the truth, but it was easy for me to dodge the blade of her words. I felt safe within the protective womb of youth.

Is the fact of aging and dying the ultimate cosmic joke? Why does matter have to break down so quickly, as we are learning all the while to become more conscious (in theory at least)?
All to say, I do now feel the truth of my grandmother's sentiment. I feel the weight, I feel the bewilderment. I feel now what seems like accelerated time, the feeling that time is moving faster than it did before. I see myself change in the mirror. I note my own incredulousness when I see that time is working on me too, just like every single one of us -- and try to appreciate the (sometimes dark) humor of it all. And try to accept the Great Mystery of it all.

Time is a reality none of us can avoid. But living our own soul's destiny is one we can choose to follow or not...we can die trying, anyway.

In the last few years I have entered a time of serious accounting. A reckoning in the most personal of ways. A matter of letting some things drop away, and of holding on tight to others.
A matter of believing that art makes a difference, and proceeding on from there. In a way like a sinner believes in being redeemed. There is no proof, necessarily. Faith and its power can still not be quantified.

I have seen people keep going though, beyond their fears, beyond their failures, beyond all the limits they were holding in place -- and continue. I want to be of that tribe. The tribe of people who don't give up and keep creating and keep loving and keep asking and keep laughing and keep working and keep trespassing and keep giving. I see these people as free.

I've been learning too that you have to know what you really want, you have to locate your deepest desires, before you can enjoy any sense of personal freedom. I had a longing to see and experience these desert places that wouldn't let go of my imagination; finally I put together a journey (on a wing and a prayer) where I could do it by myself. I drove through Utah and parts of Nevada and Arizona into LA, down to San Diego, on to Joshua Tree, to Tucson and the Saguaro National Park, up through Phoenix and vast tribal lands, Monument Valley, through Utah again and back to the Rocky Mountains of Colorado.

In a time of extreme hyper-convenience, I know it is nothing compared to what generations of women before me have endured -- on any journey, anywhere -- but I still feel that it meant something to do it.

For me, this is where wings come in, and brilliant night skies and having the silence to hear myself think. And digging into the heart of things and responding to what is there. Trusting and embracing the truth and inspiration that keeps flowing from the natural world, in all its endless wonder. Appreciating a singular cactus  -- one that can be 70 years old before it produces its first bloom -- seeing how over eons, wind and water turn sand into stone. The gentle, comforting curve of a distant hillside, remembered. Seeing animals in humans and humanity hiding in the gleam of a raven's eye. Knowing I am not alone.

I'm beginning to believe this seeking is worthwhile.

More soon --

Storyline; New Album

David Curtis

It is highly discouraged to write your own bio, for obvious reasons. I decided I needed to have some sort of timeline at the very least, so I recently wrote the following for the "About" section...If you can make it to the end I explain a little bit about my new album, hopefully out by November 2017 ~~~ 

To start before the beginning: While I was still in my mother’s womb I heard my father playing old- time mountain music on banjo and fiddle, so by the time I arrived I was already suffering from an incurable love of songs. At that time my parents were newly married and working hard on the “river” farm, now known as Riverplains, in East Tennessee. It lies in a beautiful, fertile valley by the Holston River, in the shadow of the Great Smoky Mountains. My father and two of his brothers, along with my mother’s help too, were running a good-sized dairy farm then. From my early childhood I remember most: lots of family and get togethers, animals (horses were my favorite), music, and the enchanting landscape of the area -- rolling hills and pastureland, shady tree groves, winding creeks and rivers.

After my father taught me to play guitar and a few old country tunes, I began writing my own songs around age 11 -- I still use that guitar today, a battered LG2 Gibson from 1942. Songwriting began for me as a way to lift my poetry off the page, and in many ways that has not changed.

By high school I was singing with a band, and when I was 20 I made my first album -- a simple, solo affair that duly recorded the deeply introspective bent my art had taken.

By 21 I was in Nashville, looking for signs and trying to follow footsteps. I had newly become mesmerized by Townes Van Zandt (he died that same year), and Lucinda Williams — among others outside of the mainstream. I studied the traditions of songwriting, but I couldn’t escape my own unconventional stylings. I think I knew I would never be embraced by Nashville, even by the so-called “Alternative Country” set (what they called Americana back then). Inevitably though, from day one I learned a lot from that town. Early on I found myself on stage with musicians at least twice my age and they all had advice to give. Some of them would tell me I had a mysterious quality to my songs that made me stand apart. Of course a somewhat naïve, young woman is more often than not going to be welcomed in - at least at first - by older male musicians. Dynamics get more complicated a little later down the road.

After finishing school I moved away, got married and moved around a bit (got divorced), then found myself back in Nashville a few years later.

This stretch in the Music City lasted seven years or so. During that time I made an EP called Seven Songs and what I considered my first “real” full length album (Luminous), with Joe McMahan. Those years found me longing terribly for the countryside back home in East Tennessee, while I stuck it out in the margins of East Nashville. I was working as a waitress, struggling in various ways as most “starving artists” do. During those years the music business changed dramatically. I forged ahead as an independent musician and made somewhat of a name for myself locally, got great reviews for performances in NYC and played Austin City Limits Festival and Bonnaroo in 2007. Luminous was reviewed favorably by local critics and No Depression... I have often thought that whatever career momentum I had going by 2008 had been won by blood, sweat, and tears, as they say, and in retrospect it seems a shame to have left it hanging in the air with nothing to do but evaporate.

 But that is what happens when you run away, and run away I did.

From my perspective the next chapter of my life seesaws between total salvation and near annihilation. Meaning, I went back home again. I left Nashville, the musical life I had built there, and returned to Riverplains.

I have said that it saved my life in that being back on the farm – and actually learning to farm – grounded me, and I needed that desperately. I learned so much about so many things during that time. But I also stepped away from music, stepped away from feeling worthy of being an artist, even as songs still came from time to time. Even as my personal artistic vision refused to die.

In 2011 I recorded an EP called Body+Soul with Jon Estes at Nashville’s renowned Bomb Shelter studio. Then in 2014 I recorded Birdlight, again with Jon, this time in his home studio. Listening to these songs now the core of the struggle that had a hold on me is clear. To me it is an album about loss and hope, darkness and light, the pull of cycles and seasons…I did not really know where I was heading when I wrote those songs. I do think I knew it was going to be turbulent waters.

(Now nearly 4 years later I am living far from the farm. And far from Nashville too. I followed a dream to live in the American West and currently reside in Colorado.)

In the summer of 2016 I went back to Nashville once more. It was a transition time that helped me understand my place in the scheme of things again. And right before I left a year later, I recorded a new album with Eric McConnell in his fabled East Nashville studio/house on Boscobel Street. I had written a few of these songs before leaving the farm. The rest I wrote those months back in Nashville again.

I am calling this project Angels, Demons, Red Tail Hawks and hoping all will be ready for release by November 2017. These recordings are somewhat raw, minimal, and unorthodox. I feel these songs are born of a deeper, clearer place than perhaps any of my previous work. I am beyond grateful to Eric for helping me bring them out into the world, and very excited to share them.


More soon --- JJN







David Curtis

I have always associated certain landscapes with certain people. Each having distinct personalities, sometimes geographical region and human soul overlap. In my heart I keep a catalogue of such.

I remember connecting Jeremy Sheehan, my first real boyfriend, to the state of Colorado. In particular with the dramatic terrain known as the Front Range. I’m not sure how I would have explained it then, especially having never seen him here, but it still rings true within my 42 year old heart.

He left "this sweet old world”, as Lucinda sings, twenty years ago this month. He had just turned 23.

At that time he was living back in Chicago and I was going to school in Nashville. We were not “together” then. But our history of adolescent romance began when I was 14 and never really ended. It was intermittent, tumultuous, and full of ache, break, deceit, and desire -- plus the peculiar, tenacious sentimentality that often outlives our first loves.

At his funeral I asked his mother if I could place a piece of paper in the casket with him. It held a poem I had written after seeing him a few months before.  I imagine she was at a loss on all counts. In response she nodded briskly. 

Jeremy had been my muse all along. Granted, I was inspired most by the torment -- nearly all the songs and poems I wrote about or because of him were full of longing and sorrow. The helpless sense of not ever being able to get close enough to the one thing you want to get closest to, the impossibility of romantic love. How could it feel better than most anything I had known to entwine my body with his, while at the same time in so many ways we were hopelessly at odds? We could really provoke each other’s ire. We could leave each other in the crossfires of life and walk away.

Jeremy was willing to go places I would not. He always seemed like he was running somewhere. Like he knew about something on up ahead and he didn't have time to explain it to me. He just had to get there himself. 

Not being around each other for a spell, going on with our own lives, did nothing to quell the storms of emotion that seemed to find us each time we met again. 

Somehow I imagined the thread between us would endure. I secretly hoped that “someday” we would settle back together. Maybe in the future, maybe in the mountains.

Maybe Colorado.

Is it place-and-time that has led me here, to writing about a forlorn subject I have managed to largely put out of my mind over the years? Context is alive, present and pertinent, and I can’t help thinking about this person for whom I felt so many things (still do) and penned so many lyrics.

I am in Colorado, in the mountains. This time of year, in September, the month of both his birthday and passing, how could I look at the changing colors, the magnificent peaks, lines, skies -- all with so much clarity and aliveness-- and not think about Jeremy?

Twenty years after his passing the mysteries of love still haunt me, as well as the inconclusiveness of death. Visages of Jeremy come to me in dreams, and I know it’s not really him. But who is it? And where is he?

Three years before he died I wrote “Skeleton Song”, it is on my very first album. In it the lines: “I can’t be your wife, I can’t be your mother, I can’t call myself your girlfriend… But if we --- once -- were lovers -– how --- does that end?” 

When you are a veteran of something, in this case love, you surely hope you’ve won some wisdom along with the inevitable scars. In the years since Jeremy disappeared I have lived and loved fully. I have lost, again and again. Still longing survives, desire can find us no matter where we've retreated. 

Experience helps to build us, layer upon layer. It is not the same as having answers -- I still have none of those.

I do recall, not perfectly, the poem I wrote after his death.

It was accepted to my college’s literary journal, and I remember reading it aloud to peers and professors, a surreal experience as the emotion of it all still had quite a hold on me.

Two decades later, I can walk down a mountain road in Evergreen, Colorado whispering the lines to myself as they return and still find myself in tears.

Here I am somewhere along the unforgiving spiral of Time, just wanting to say hello again, Jeremy.

Here you go, once more: 


There are stretches of love on life’s landscape

That never rest beneath the skies.

Like a valley’s hungry waters,

Or a cricket’s song at night.

And ancient.

Willful as wolves move, tireless over land.

Desire that by its nature

can never be fulfilled.


We too have been like this.

I can say “I know what love is.”


And now that you have traveled on ahead

And must know now what I can only guess –

Rest easy, rest easy in my love.

Rest easy now, rest easy in my love.


As easy as it was

When it had only just begun –

Like the first time we ever held hands.




Out of Range

David Curtis

"The consciousness of the universe is infused in the earth, and we have come to learn from it." --Rudolfo Anaya

What is a soul looking for when it journeys into parts unknown? What makes us say goodbye to things we love? 

Summertime is never long enough for me. And it is my favorite time of year in Tennessee -- where I was born and raised and have spent the better part of my life. Yet, right in the heart of summer, on the last day of July, I drove away from the place I have been most attached to on this earth. 

I went swiftly and with tears in my eyes. Covering that common ground, winding thread, historical pathway -- that legendary highway and everyday traveling ground for thousands upon thousands...

I went west. 

I landed in the High Plains of Colorado -- high desert country, mountains all around. The air is thin here. The exaggerated space between things can be arresting, disorienting, intoxicating. 

I have been staying in Denver, and now a nearby mountain town called Evergreen. But on my way out and since I have taken every chance I can to explore surrounding (less-peopled) areas. I call these little trips my sojourns. When you're looking for lonely, beautiful places, you don't have to travel far out here. 

I've stopped to watch sunlight chase the shadows on majestic rocks and valley floor. I've witnessed silhouettes of giant clouds flood across the sand dunes. I have wondered why I feel most myself in the desert, as I admire every life-form that calls the desert home -- from beetle to cactus to rattlesnake. 

I've let the winds pass over me, softening my own internal landscape. I've felt the unfiltered sunlight electrify my freedom, excavate my loneliness. I can feel the elements chip away at me, taking away what is no longer needed. 

According to Barry Lopez, one enters the desert by a "series of strippings". 

I have been a long time arriving here, and what brought me here is still moving. 


--More soon,



Angels, Demons, and Red-Tail Hawks

David Curtis

photo: Jack Parker

photo: Jack Parker

It is late February and I find myself in Nashville still, amid an eerily premature spring. Of course I am enjoying it -- my spirit is like the precipitous bud and bloom, more than ready to leave winter behind. But my human mind, which so often resides in the conflicting streams of fear and wonder, is completely unsettled by a season out of sync. It's hard not to see a theme: the natural world responding to our accelerated chaos in its own language of extremes.

I have been wanting to write something of an "update" from my time back in the city since late fall. For some reason it has felt nearly impossible. Perhaps I have been and remain somewhat in winter-mode myself, letting things germinate in silence. Looking around me now I see daffodils blooming, but the trees remain exposed, most plant-life is still sleeping.

I have come to realize in the last few weeks that if leaving my life on the farm last July was a stepping into the unknown, if it was entering a "second cocoon" as Paul Plotkin describes in his wonderful book Soulcraft, then it could be that I am simply so much still in the in-between that I am not sure how or what to report. If a part of me is dying and part of me being born, it could be that the chrysalis of my next self remains suspended. At any rate, songs have been coming, and for that I am always grateful.

I wrote "Mountain Spring" in the true dead of winter; to me it describes a sort of revelation and surrender. Not a giving up or resignation, but a going on and through -- hopefully even a sort of integration. The idea and image of clear, pure water coming from a deep, underground source (and never drying up) is something I want to hold on to. It is real, it is imagined, it is endangered, it is already extinct. It is what we need. It is necessary. It is sustaining, mysterious, powerful, vivifying. It is healing, transformative. How do we get it, how do we keep it? How can we protect it? Who owns it and who holds the power to use or destroy it? Will we ever get it back?

Also during the process of digging in and writing this song, I glimpsed more mysteries and truths about love itself -- seeing that we can come to a place where instead of constantly searching for love, we realize we are love, we are an accumulation of all the love we've ever experienced.

The term sacred wound is sometimes used to describe a psychological potentiality within us all -- it is a place in the psyche where we were initially hurt, but with time, care, and a precise, loving attention it can be turned into spiritual strength. For this healing and transformation to take place we must not ignore the original site of injury. We must not deny that we were ever injured. This is where we must be brave, and this is where we must use our best night-vision, to see what needs seeing in the dark.

Sometimes transformation takes time. Change is constant, but when you're hoping for transmutation, you don't know if it will happen instantaneously, overnight, or over a period of many years.

And you can open the door, walk out the door, and close the door behind you, and still not know how to answer when they ask if you're coming back or not.

All to say, I have been busy with my own inner work. I've been cultivating the internal terrain where songs (for me) come from. Where wounds are exposed and revisited with hopes of healing, where dreams are seeded and fertilized, tended to with care.

Looking forward into (official) spring, I plan to begin recording a new album in the next couple of months. And although I'm still not sure of the particulars, I trust the seeds that have been planted are pushing sunward even now.



Bubbling from the mountain spring: old wounds, new love

Shifting in the dying light,
will I recognize my reflection?

Cut away, cut away, see what I've become

Don't look away, don't look away, from what's been done

It's never over, it's never enough We're just layer upon layer
of love ---

Dancing in the winter fire: old dreams, new visions

Angels, demons, red-tail hawks,
keep on circling the roads unchosen --

A sister told me, sometimes,
to find your way back out again
, You gotta go deeper
You gotta go further in ---

It never ends, it never ends It's never enough
We're just layer
upon layer of love

We're just layer upon layer of love ---

(Mountain Spring, © Jennifer Niceley, 2017)