The Best View In The House

I’m writing on my deck today. Wind tossed leaves gathered on top of my faded wicker chairs and my dog Sam’s on squirrel patrol, laying just under the deck rail so he has the perfect view for inventory of the entire yard. I can hear the laundry turning through the glass patio door and my suitcase is in transfer mode, where I just fold all the clothes from the dryer and place them directly back in my suitcase, so I’m ready for the next run in just over a week. We’re halfway through our Cross Canada tour and today it feels nice to be home. To sleep in my own bed. To listen to Billie Holiday in the kitchen making sweet potato soup. Tomorrow I’ll start to yearn for the motion again, for the hum of our Bandwagon generator that sounds like a rusty rollercoaster clicking up a track. For the laughter down the hallway from the green room filled with my friends sitting on half broken furniture next to a folding table with hummus and gluten free pretzels. For the sound of an entire theatre singing back lyrics of songs I’ve written and the way my soul feels a part of something bigger when I’m connected to that sound.

I struggle switching between road life and home life. Road life is such a high… the thrill of playing live music, the constant company of my road family, the circus momentum of waking up in a new city every day. It’s incredibly fun and it keeps the lonely away. Some of that’s good and some of it just keeps me running but I really do love it out there. My head is the quietest on stage. I think it’s because I’m entirely present. Just in the song. In the room. Feet on the platform. Heart lifted out towards the audience. Breath in lungs. It’s the one place I don’t have to think about what I’m doing. There’s some part of my being that just knows what to do up there. And that feels good.

I don’t feel that kind of knowing in any other area of my life. Before the show starts, I’m like a racehorse restless and ready for the trigger so I can run. People ask if I get nervous before a show, and the truth is I’m nervous all the time. Nervous I’ll say the wrong thing. Nervous I won’t say enough. Nervous I’ll let down somebody I care about. Nervous I’ll let myself down. Nervous about the algorithms. Nervous about the state of the world. But when I’m on stage, I don’t think about what I’m nervous about. I don’t think at all. I’m just singing my songs. Offering up some music to everyone in the room who decided to buy a ticket and leading them in a night of escape. Opening the doors to rooms in our minds that we are scared to walk in alone with melodies and words. God it’s so fun to let go of thought up there. I hope that people coming to the show, can feel that and give themselves permission to let go of thought too.

There’s been so many beautiful moments on this tour so far that are putting pieces of myself back together that I didn’t realize were broken apart. I can feel the creative vision clearing up. The edges are still a little foggy and it’s not there yet but it’s starting to get clearer. We’ve sold out more venues on this run than I’ve ever sold before. I wouldn’t get to travel and do the thing I love to do if people didn’t want to come to the shows to hear the music. I am incredibly grateful for every single person deciding to fill these rooms with love.

(photo credit: Jamie Glasgow)

I’ve got the best view in the house up there. I get to see the smile on the face of a silver haired woman singing a song of mine called “Girl Who Didn’t Care”… she lifted her face up to the lights like it was the sun and she held her arms out in a state of surrender, swaying to the music as though no one else was the room. I get to witness that. I get to see the grin on the face of a dad who brought his daughter to the show. He’s not watching the show at all, he’s just watching her. Beaming as she’s singing along, like he’s so proud of the person she’s becoming and like he knows how special it is to get to have this moment with her. I get to witness that. I get to hear the request from a guy with his arm around a girl, telling me from the floor, “Can you play “The Way You Look Tonight”, because it’s her favourite”, and watch them start to dance like the planet has just quit spinning for them for a moment. I get to witness that.

Before one of the shows on this run, I had an interview with a girl who was so easy to talk to. We talked about the collective, tangible feeling that is sacred in live music. And how healing it can be to know others in the room connect to a similar feeling, especially when it comes to grief. She told me after the recording was over, that her mom recently passed away. She said she was prepared to feel sad that night and debated staying home, but that her mom would have kicked her ass for not going. Or for missing out on any experience in life. That we’re supposed to feel it all and have a good time. That after watching her fight cancer for years, the take away was that you make every moment count. That you get off the couch and go to the concert. I got to hear her talk about choosing to live well. And during the show, I saw her in the crowd, standing by herself but far from alone, feeling all the emotions, singing along and having the best time. And god that was so beautiful to me.

I want people coming to these shows to feel seen… and I guess I’m sharing these thoughts today from my deck to say that I really do see you. I feel so lucky to get to see you. When I’m smiling up there, it’s because I’m in awe of all the beauty of the human kind that I have the best view in the house to see.

From one wandering soul to another, I hope you know you’re loved as you are.

<3 T