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How did it get so late so soon? It’s night before it’s afternoon. December is here before it’s June. My goodness, how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?

– Dr. Suess

Persistence Of Memory – Salvador Dali, 1931

It’s that time of year when our feeds and minds are full of ways in which we might improve ourselves. Usually rooted in feelings of lack, we use the new year as some kind of barbed yardstick to quantify all the ways we don’t measure up. If I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that these feelings, the deeper ones, aren’t so easily tamed by taking up a hobby, losing weight, or any of the usual resolution suspects.

Earlier in the year, I found a book called When Things Fall Apart, written by Pema Chodron, a Buddhist nun with a wonderful perspective. It both reminded me and helped me newly see that only when we’re okay with the parts of ourselves that we can’t stand to look at or acknowledge can we be okay with anything.

The past year was the most difficult I’ve experienced. It dawned with continued worsening of the chronic pain that’s plagued me for the last few years. In February, I released Stereophile, which felt amazing, but was followed by zero interest from the general public and shops that I tried to get the book and record into. Not helpful was the fact that, due to chronic fatigue and spiritual exhaustion, I wasn’t able to, or interested in, putting forth the relentless effort it takes to promote any creative work. I then found out that I’ve a heart condition that’s going to require surgery later this year. It sounds like a standard procedure, but nonetheless added another thing to the list of maladies. In the early spring, a romantic relationship came to an end, one in which the friendship and familial aspects, just as, if not more important to me than the romance itself, were subsequently decimated in the ending’s wake. Early summer saw some standard bloodwork flag the possibility of a rare form of cancer for which there is no cure. It took until December 1st to get the final word. Turns out I don’t have cancer. Almost a half a year with that question hanging around. Egad. Add to all of this my role as solo householder and single parent to a beautiful, brilliant kid with a handful of her own challenges, and it’s fair to say there was enough cooking this year to leave a body wanting. There were many times I thought I might cave. I didn’t.

While the year was my hardest yet, it also offered great gifts. Revelatory is the word that comes to mind. Were it not for the intensity of the events I’ve listed, I wouldn’t have had the capacity to see where I stand. To own my behaviour and reactions. To begin befriending the parts made previously unbearable. In Chodron’s book, she talks about the importance of possessing unlimited friendliness toward ourselves. It sounds simple, but it’s dead elusive. We’re all so hard on ourselves. Our feelings of unworthiness eat us alive from within. They become the anger we inflict on others. The demons that drive us to addiction. They’re a departure from our innate humanity and basic self-worth. The work I put in this year has given me the ability to start seeing different possibilities. However tarnished by the hurt and suffering we endure, our hearts still shine. Whatever the depth of the darkness that surrounds, we’re still fundamentally okay. In the heat of the moment, clearly seeing what’s up is almost impossible at first. I’ve had recent experiences where I’ve been able to see where certain reactions are coming from, closer to the events themselves. This is usually after the reaction. With practice comes the ability to see it rise and catch it before it goes live.

Also present in 2025 were dear friendships. My appreciation for the support and understanding of a few close souls cannot be understated. Where nighttime reigned, there they were, reminding me of the dawn which was, always and inevitably, just round the bend. If you’re reading this, you know who you are. Thank you so much for always seeing me, and for your patience and love.

I’ve often berated myself for how far I have to go to be “whole.” The tandem filters of self-awareness and the things that hurt have a way of sending these messages. According to the Buddhist view, it’s all right here and available to us right now. With lots of life and twenty years of yoga under my belt, I understand that part. A life lesson revisited, from a perspective only experience can offer. I’m full of gratitude for seeing a bit more clearly. The ground needs constant, gentle cultivation.

If, from all I’ve said here, anyone is thinking that I’m breezing into the new year full of vim and vigor and ready to become instafamous for living my best life…I wish it were true (except for the nausea inducing instafamous for living my best life part). I came into the holiday season crawling across the finish line. The break has done nothing to improve my wellbeing. I’m currently on Herculean doses of meds, none of which are making my days pain free, but help enough to weather the day. I can feel my heart beating its odd time bebop rhythms in my chest and it’s dreadfully uncomfortable. My doc finally found a med that’s helping with the acute anxiety I started feeling partway through the year, which no amount of meditation could mitigate. It’s doing its job and then some. I wake up each morning feeling stunned psychologically and in dreadful pain from the chronic issues. My yoga mat (mindfully) mocks me from its dusty corner. I can’t remember the last time my body felt not only good enough, but average enough, to get through the day without deep discomfort. I list all of this, not for sympathy, but to illustrate how inspired I feel by the budding successes of Buddha-based technique I’ve had. If I can feel relaxed and okay with all of the crazy shit that’s going on, well, that’s an amazing thing to work toward.

So, here’s to us at the dawn of another calendar year. May we find more kindness for ourselves and each other. May childlike wonder and the wisdom of the ages be with us. May you and I continue to tread this chapter lightly, finding our way through the thick and thin of being, while the world rages on and time flies by.

As always, thanks for reading.

K. xo

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Pic by Marcel Lanteigne

“Grace is what matters in anything – especially life, especially growth, tragedy, pain, love, death. That’s a quality that I admire very greatly. It keeps you from reaching out for the gun too quickly. It keeps you from destroying things too foolishly. It sort of keeps you alive.”

– Jeff Buckley

Rolling around in bed of a Sunday, I met the day with the usual thoughts: yesterday’s news, the past, the future, today’s todo list, music, the record, the book. More present than these was a terrible level of chronic pain and whether or not I have a future playing live music. I watched a YouTube short of artists from Robert Plant and Jimmy Page, to Chris Cornell, to Brandi Carlile, to Adam Levine, talking about the late Jeff Buckley’s influence and incandescent glow. The clip ended with Buckley himself saying the first few words of the quote above. Not long after I sat down in the window at the local to start this writing, I came upon the full quote. Undoubtedly, someone had asked him why he called his debut album Grace. There is was, in full form, after my seeing snippet of it just hours ago.

I chose it today because of it’s timeliness. I’m on the verge of releasing Stereophile, my record and small format book that’s been, mostly due to stress and trauma-based chronic pain, the longest process I’ve experienced seeing a project from start to finish. That I’ve made it this far is a massive victory. In the face of daily adversity, I did it. I’m not without a huge sense of gratitude and pride that it’s all come together so wonderfully. The current issue lies elsewhere.

Earlier in the year, I did two shows. They checked all the boxes: connection, vibration and decent pay. The latter is an often shat upon aspect of art. The commercialism of it. The “desire” for money in exchange for scraping the guts from the skin of our souls, collating it all within a song and sending it out there, with a hope for connection and validation. With the pain I was experiencing, along with my day gig, parental engagement, domestic requirements, and the record and book hanging unfinished from the bleak February trees, it was too much. I took a step away from the live stuff.

As the record got closer to completion, I revisited the live thang. I started tweaking my live rig, simplifying everything. Getting back to the very foundation of the solo acoustic troubadour (plus some dub delays thrown in for cosmic measure). The setlist was revamped. I added some new songs to the running order. I say new songs, meaning these are new to me. I realize none of you have heard Stereophile yet, so those songs are new to you. I’ve been living with them for so long and they’ve been in studio process for so long that, in the meantime, new joints were written. I’m never short of fodder for the mill. It’s all good stuff. The new songs make the setlist that much stronger.

While all this was happening there was, in the back of my mind, the little voice, asking me whether or not all this preparation was going to come to anything. I’ve not yet parsed out if it was the kind, authentic voice or the voice of trauma and discord disguised as a helping hand. Whatever the case, I’m very much aware that I’ve learned to distrust my body’s ability to muster the energy required to deliver a killer live show. To give every ounce to the music and not feel afterwards the mingling of joy for being where I should be, doing what I love, with feeling like I’ve been rolled over by a tank. In the moment, there is no pain. I’m in the music. It’s only post gig that I feel my body and brain collapsing.

The usual default is that this is old guy shit. That’s not the case here. I aware enough to know the difference between the possible limitations and afflictions of age and the underlying forces causing my chronic issues. I’ve been smart enough, after years of booze and drugs, to start taking care of myself. It’s an insight into how insipid stress is, and how both experienced and generational trauma can make a mess of good things.

I recently went to see an osteopath, whose work is intuitive and deep. I’ve seen her twice and it’s so far promising. I can feel shifts. I’ve also recently dialed back the pain meds I’ve been relying on daily for a few years. It was going well, until it wasn’t. I was limping across the finish line at the tail end of this week.

It’s been a weekend of reflection and making lots of music. I’ve been pickin’ like a hero and also leaning back and breathing. It’s my daughter Ava’s eleventh birthday this week. I had a ball going out and getting her prezzies, then wrapping them yesterday. There’s so much good in my life. I’m surrounded by abundance and Love, in this mad age where we blunder along, so often lost in survival mode and all manner of distraction.

I hit our local park two weeks ago, on a tired afternoon, knowing that I needed to sing. I packed up the busking rig and headed across the road. Barefoot, I let ‘er rip. It was so good. It was the reminder I needed. I was doing what I was put here for. I’ve been back out a few times since. I’ve met a bunch of folks who confirmed and validated me. They reflected back to me what I was offering. I left each experience higher that I’d been prior.

That high has always been there, after every show, after all these years. It’s a constant. I know any of you out there who play music for people know what I’m talking about. I’m not sure what the future holds. I’m afraid. Afraid to commit to a string of live dates in the face of the distrust I feel for my physical wherewithal to see it through. I don’t feel a pull towards being a digital creator. Real time is where it’s at, where we see and feel each other. Meeting, music, smiles, hugs, farewells until next time. This is the stuff.

I’ll keep on going like it’s going to happen. The live set will continue to develop. I’ll continue to look for friends/players who want to form a musical gang and play shows together. I’ll keep working on managing the sometimes unmanageable pain. With courage, humour and, hopefully, grace, I’ll rise to meet the road ahead.

Thanks for reading.

K. xo