Songs from the Grove
Music grown from attention, story, art and the things that keep humming underneath.
Come listen awhile.
Songs from the Grove gathers original music grown from the same places as my art: a noticing, a question, a memory, a piece of prose, a lived experience, or something small that kept asking to be heard.
Some songs begin in ache. Some in curiosity. Some in nature, science, or a single line that refuses to leave. Each one carries traces of where it came from, even after it has changed shape.
Here you’ll find the songs themselves, along with occasional glimpses of the art, words, images, and stories growing beneath them.
New songs are still taking root.🌿
Stay awhile, listen closely, and follow whatever begins humming underneath.🎶
From the Studio
A bee, a few mushrooms, a hidden network beneath the soil. Soft Coral Frequency grew from a noticing that kept changing form, from art to prose to lyric to music.
Read the Lantern →
Soft Coral Frequency Hum… Hum… There is a place beneath the noise where the body remembers its own name. Not the name spoken by others. Not the name defended or performed. The original one. There’s a low note under the sternum, steady as a bee at the first bloom. Not a trumpet. Not a warning bell. Just a hum moving outward, sunlight pressing through thinning snow. And something in the body says, I know this. I know this. There is a thaw, nothing dramatic. No cracking ice. No flood. Just the slow return of scent, damp earth breathing again. You only hear it when you stop pushing. You only feel it when you stop trying to become flame. The mycelial network hums beneath it all, quiet intelligence, linking root to root, (root to root) home to home, (home to home) nervous system to nervous system. You are not alone in the dark. There are others breathing at two-fifty hertz, remembering with you. (with you) Remembering with you. Root to root, home to home, root to root, home to home, nervous system to nervous system. Phoenix, beloved, you may rest now. You do not need to burn to prove rebirth. There is another story. One where nothing combusts. One where the soil softens. One where dandelions rise through compacted ground, irreverent gold faces, no apology. Weed or flower, it does not matter. They feed the bees. They heal the soil. They scatter freely without asking where they’ll land. No proving. (no proving) No performing. (no performing) No endless reaching for permission to exist. You are not required to perform. You are permitted to bloom. The mycelial network hums beneath it all, quiet intelligence, linking root to root, (root to root) home to home, (home to home) nervous system to nervous system. You are not alone in the dark. There are others breathing at two-fifty hertz, remembering with you. (with you) Remembering with you. Hum… Mmm… Root to root… Wayfinding is not domination. A beacon does not command ships. It simply stands steady long enough for others to orient. Pause. The power was never in the push. It was in the listening. In the conversation between wind and tree, between chest and breath, between grief and forgiveness. Trust is not loud. Sovereignty is not sharp. Sometimes it feels like damp earth. Sometimes like warm sun. Sometimes it is simply another body nearby breathing, regulating, remembering. Hum. (Hum.) Feed. (Feed.) Scatter. (Scatter.) Return. (Return.) Hum. Feed. Scatter. Return. The mycelial network hums beneath us all, quiet intelligence, linking root to root, (root to root) home to home, (home to home) nervous system to nervous system. We are not alone in the dark. There are others breathing at two-fifty hertz, remembering with us. (with us) Remembering with us. Root to root… Home to home… Hum. Feed. Scatter. Return. The body remembers.
From the Studio
Sometimes the work knows something before the artist does. The Voice of Longing brought me back to a line I thought I understood and showed me there were roots underneath the roots.
The Voice of Longing I woke this morning With that old longing to feel treasured Nothing extravagant, nothing grand Just your fingers reaching across the table Just the quiet knowing of your hand A kiss against my neck there in the kitchen A little note beneath my coffee cup You crossed my mind when you weren't here beside me Sometimes those little things can say enough But somewhere between the wanting And the words that finally came The tender thing put armor on And answered in its place Before I was angry Before I withdrew Before all the reasons There was only you There was “I miss you” “I wish you were here” “I wanna feel your tenderness” “I still want you near” So before hurt tells the story Before fear decides it's through Let the longing finish its sentence Let the quiet tell the truth I used to leave the note without a question Used to reach, never counting who reached first But unanswered hands learn how to close themselves And hope can learn to brace itself for hurt Not because the tenderness has vanished Not because the heart has ceased to care Sometimes we stop offering what we long for Because longing unanswered is hard to bear And somewhere underneath the silence Under every “Why should I?” There's a softer voice still waiting Just to say what hurt walked by Before I was angry Before I withdrew Before all the reasons There was only you There was “I miss you” “I wish you'd reach for me” “Come and sit beside me” “Come a little closer, please” So before hurt tells the story Before fear decides it's through Let the longing finish its sentence Let the quiet tell the truth The protector isn't an enemy It learned its work honestly It learned to brace and watch the doorway It learned what wanting used to cost me So I won't send it from the room now I won't shame it for the things it knew I'll say, “Thank you, you got me here” “But there's another voice coming through” I cannot choose what crosses back Across the bridge to me I cannot make another heart Answer honestly But I can choose what I lay down Here upon my side I can reach before the old defenses Tell me not to try And maybe underneath your armor There's a quiet longing too Maybe every sharp... “You never” Once began with... “I miss you” Maybe resignation whispers “I was hoping you'd choose me” Maybe fear says “I don't need you” When it means “Please don't leave me” Before we are angry Before we withdraw Before all the stories And who wounded whom There is “I miss you” “I need you near” “I want you to see me” “I wish you were here” There is something I still love here Something I still choose to reach for Let the longing finish its sentence Let the quiet tell the truth You may sit beside me, old protector You don't have to disappear Just be quiet for a moment There's another voice I need to hear “I miss you.” “I still care.” Let the longing finish its sentence.
From the Studio
Beginning Again, Quietly is about two people who have weathered enough together to know that beginning again doesn't mean starting over. Their history is still there, along with the tenderness that sometimes gets buried beneath old defenses.
What I love about this version is the way the voice moves from quiet uncertainty into something almost like discovery. Nothing has been erased or magically repaired. But something has softened, and perhaps that's where beginning again becomes possible.
Read the Lantern →
Beginning Again, Quietly We laid the words between us like things that still could break no one raised a voice no one turned away I kept waiting for the moment that old ground would reappear for some familiar turning for the air to shift somehow But the moment never came No sharp edge in the silence no old defense to prove and when the talking ended I was still inside the room Maybe this is how it starts not with promises or proof not by saying nothing happened not by changing what is true Maybe beginning again doesn’t need to make a sound maybe it’s two people simply staying when leaving would be easier Maybe we’re beginning again The kettle clicked off in the kitchen evening settled on the floor I kept waiting for the after I had learned to listen for But the cup went cold beside me and the clock moved on instead nothing sharpened in the silence nothing followed what we’d said And somewhere in the quiet my body loosened first before I trusted hope again before I gave it words We put one date between us one agreement we could hold not a promise of forever just a place where we would meet Something small and steady a beacon we could follow not an answer for tomorrow not a map for what comes next Maybe this is how it starts not with promises or proof not by saying nothing happened not by changing what is true Maybe beginning again doesn’t need to make a sound maybe it’s two people simply staying when leaving would be easier Maybe we’re beginning again Quietly I didn’t know peace could feel this unfinished nothing erased nothing undone no promise that tomorrow would be easier than this just enough room between us for hurt and hope to coexist I didn’t know hope could ask so little of us not forever not yet just one quiet beacon and one honest step toward the light This is how we start not with promises or proof not by saying nothing happened not by changing what is true Beginning again doesn’t have to make a sound sometimes it’s two people simply staying when leaving would be easier We are not starting over We are beginning again Quietly
From the Studio
When You Remember You Can Float moves through the strange, tender space between struggling and surrender, where the water hasn’t changed, but something in you has. Sometimes the way forward begins when you stop fighting to stay above it all and remember you already know how to float.
Read the Lantern →
When You Remember You Can Float There are moments when panic convinces you The only thing keeping you alive Is how hard you're fighting Your arms are tired Your breath is short The water feels endless and dark Beneath you Every instinct says don't stop Don't let go Keep flailing What panic doesn't tell you Is that water also knows How to hold it Doesn't occur to you at first That you could roll onto your back That you could unclench your jaw That you could let the effort pause That kind of stopping feels like surrender And it is Not the kind that sinks The kind that trusts what's already there When you float the sky Comes back into view Wide quiet Uninterested in your struggle The body remembers how to breathe The mind loosens From here nothing has to be solved Rest comes first Strength returns on its own time Later When you're ready You may swim again Slow strokes measured breath Moving gently toward shore But today floating is enough You are not failing Because you stopped fighting You are remembering another way to Stay alive