Return of the Frog Queen

“And every time you cry I’ll cry for you
Then all these fields will turn into mud”

This story should be saved for a Christmas post. After all, the story will celebrate its 20th anniversary later this year — but who knows if I’ll still be on a blogging kick come December. Instead, the spring sun is poking out from behind some clouds as I type this, and I’m reminded of a smile amidst an otherwise gloomy winter day. So, I’m writing it now.

To set the stage, I will need to explain aforementioned gloom. The one or two of you who might be reading this will already know about my tumultuous family history, but just in case a hapless stranger has wandered in to to overhear… I have a tumultuous family history. This story takes place not long after my mother’s divorce from her second husband, my enemy (AKA: adopted father). I, with great reluctance, agreed to spend the holidays at his house to bring a modicum of comfort to my younger siblings –it was their first Christmas after the family broke apart.

It was awful. He was awful. I spent as much time sequestered in the spare room as I could, headphones on.

I love presents. I love to give them; I love to receive them. But, there were several years in my life when I hated gifts because they were tied up with my baggage from having this man in my life. His gifts came at a cost, an obligation. They tended to be showy items that he himself would like — items he understood and could easily show off to people. The presents had nothing to do with the recipients, their needs, or their taste. Gifts made me uncomfortable. This Christmas, as was to be expected, I received a cumbersome and useless (and expensive) gift from him.

I do not remember how many days I was there. In fact, other than the overall feeling of revulsion, I remember very little about that time, having shunted most of those memories into some hidden space where I’m sure they will be unearthed by a therapist some day. But, I do remember a small parcel arriving in the mail and landing in my hands. I remember rushing into the spare room,  hands shaking as I opened it. Inside I found a copy of Jeremy Enigk’s Return of the Frog Queen.

Sunny Day Real Estate was a frequent feature in my heavy rotation in those days, particularly their album Diary. I had been wanting to get my hands on Enigk’s solo album for some time, but had never run across it in a local music store (surprise). No, instead, the music of this Seattle artist came to me by way of Arizona, courtesy of a friend.

I recall Craig good-naturedly shrugging off the gift as no big deal. He had simply found a copy in a bin, knew I’d wanted it, and tossed it into the mail for me. There was no great expense, no strings attached, nothing but a friend sending a smile to another friend. Meanwhile, I was in tears. There was jumping of feet and pounding of heart. New CD excitement aside, there is nothing in the world quite like feeling known, understood, and loved.

And then there was the music.  The album title calls tales of the faery-kind to mind, and it’s as magical as that suggests. I’m not talking sparkles and Disney-princess-pop, though. This is a wilder magic: mythical, otherworldly, frayed at the edges, and a bit off-kilter. It’s not safe, and I love it.

If you haven’t, I encourage you to brew a pot of tea (or pour something stronger) and give the album a listen or ten. Let it wash over you in all its peculiar, orchestral glory.

There’s also this video. Last year, Enigk appeared live on KEXP. I mean, I was excited about this… but then I realized what he was playing and, well… I had been expecting new music but instead received a different sort of gift. There were tears.


Pedro The Lion

A friend asked me last week where he should start if he were going to listen to Pedro The Lion. I had no answer for him, as I sat there realizing that I hadn’t listened to any of their back catalog in years. A day or so later found me listening to every one of their releases chronologically over the course of a single day. Maybe not the best journey to take on a work day? Still, it was about time I faced the processing of all this. So… thank you, friend.

(To be honest, I don’t know if you will see this. Probably. I mean, you’re the sort who would. So, hello. I’m sorry in advance. This is going to be a long one…)

Going years without listening to PTL would come as a surprise to anyone who has known me well for a long time (AKA no one who reads this blog): I’ve seen the band live multiple times, and I think I own every CD except the last, and still have 3 t-shirts despite no longer fitting them. Quotes from lyrics have been posted on my walls. I even once named a short prodigal-son-esque play after a Pedro song, pulling story references from the Whole EP. (Yes, I wrote a short play. No, you cannot read it.)

So yeah, Pedro the Lion lives in a particular place of significance for me. David Bazan’s music has been with me in one way or another for the entirety of my adult life. PTL’s first CD was released my first spring on the internet, one month before I turned 20, shortly after I had made those first connections with the online music community who would have an unparalleled impact on who I am as a lover of music. I think my first Pedro song was on a mix tape from one of those friends, or perhaps on that late night weekend show on the Christian radio station I could just barely tune into on one side of my basement bedroom. I don’t recall the day I bought Whole — but I do remember holding it close with excitement.

So what is it about this music that draws me in? It is pensive, vulnerable, trembling with emotion. I remember someone once telling me that David Bazan intentionally recruited inexperienced musicians to maintain that sense of hesitance and simplicity — though, that theory doesn’t exactly fit with the list of talent who have worked with him over the years (e.g., Frank Lenz, Trey Many, Blake Wescott, TW Walsh, members of Fleet Foxes, and Ben Gibbard of Death Cab for Cutie/The Postal Service).

And, why have I been avoiding this for so long? It’s complicated. Explaining it requires a highlight (lowlight?) reel of the past 21 years of my life. Well, here goes nothing:

Bazan’s haunting lyrics resonated with my own doubts. I clung so tightly to the expressions of comfort he shared. The songs on the Whole EP walk a path of foolish rebellion, denial, addiction, desperation, followed by a hopeful cry for help. Then comes Lullaby — a struggle between guilt and peace, with the embrace of God’s promise to be “all the strength that you need”.

When this song started playing the other day, I found myself shaking with emotion. I spent the majority of my Christian life feeling like a failure — someone who would never measure up. This sweet little song sustained me through some dark times of self-hatred. Ooof. There are so many feelings that run twisted through me when I hear this now. Nostalgia and love, but also rage and grief. Listening to it, I end up shaking my fist at the religion which drove these impossible standards into my head. I’m still pulling out splinters and shards.

The first full-length (It’s Hard to Find a Friend) was released in the fall of 1998. The time leading up to it had been one of the most tumultuous years of my life: I had been physically abused, experienced the explosive breakup of my mom and adopted father’s marriage, been separated from two of my siblings, watched most of my close local friendships fall apart, moved to two different cities in Washington, observed my mother’s whirlwind romance with her third husband, and moved to Canada. Somewhere in that mess, I had started tentatively going back to church after years away from it.

“Could someone please tell me the story
Of sinners ransomed from the fall
I still have never seen You
And some days I don’t love You at all”

I was bitter, jaded, twitchy, and skeptical. But I was also lonely. I connected, again, with Bazan’s struggles and angst. The album meanders through desires to escape, personal failures, betrayal, depression, frustrations with church politics, and doubts that riddle his faith. The title of the track I’ve shared, Secret of the Easy Yoke, references Christ’s admonishment to carry (instead of our own baggage) the burden he offers, claiming it would be light. The lyrics find him struggling under this supposed easy burden. It eventually turns upwards as Christ replies to him, “Peace, be still.” And there is was again: that glimmer of light I also sought in the darkness.

Spring of 1999 brought along a five-song EP: The Only Reason I Feel Secure (Is That I’m Validated By My Peers). Released about a month after I was invited to join the seemingly vibrant youth leadership at the step-dad’s church, the first track would be one that resounded through my mind over and over through the course of the next 15.5 years of my evolving work with those pastors.

“It makes me feel so good
To always tell you when you’re wrong”

The words of this song helped form part of the shield that protected me from becoming the monster my pastoral mentors aimed to make me…

The next three releases were quite a bit different Pedro experiences for me: Winners Never Quit (2000, a concept/story album about the tumultuous lives of two brothers), Progress (2000, a short EP with two new songs, and two new recordings of old ones), and Control (2002, a concept album about a businessmen, his affair, and death). These I enjoyed at a sort of arms-length — more as art pieces than something I was intimately connected to.

Then came Achilles Heel in 2004. I had fallen in love with my partner. We were getting married. Life was full-tilt busy. Meanwhile, here was Bazan with his difficult questions and sardonic takes on life. I had no time to process this and did not buy the album (not that I could afford to, anyway).

“You were too busy steering the conversation toward the Lord
To hear the voice of the Spirit, begging you to shut the fuck up
You thought it must be the devil trying to make you go astray
Besides, it couldn’t have been the Lord because you don’t believe
He talks that way” (Foregone Conclusions)

Pedro the Lion left the stage in 2005. Bazan then left Christianity. Someone whose words had helped me hold on to grace despite my doubts had succumbed to his dark questions. I could claim being busy for my disconnection from Bazan’s work (aside from the old stuff) at this point — I mean, I really was busy. But it came down to cognitive dissonance. His drunken, angry diatribes and accusations against his former beliefs (and himself) were too much for me to take in whilst still holding on to my ever-tenuous faith.

I didn’t start listening to his solo releases until I, too, had left religion behind. I’ve barely touched them, though, feeling like I really needed to go back to the beginning and work my way to the present — to follow the whole story of Bazan’s path out of the faith and into his current life. But, that would require me facing those old songs again, and all the weight they bring with them. There are many songs by other artists I used to enjoy that repulse me now, and I think part of me was afraid to lose my love for these if I confronted them as an apostate.

I think it’s helped knowing this has been a journey for Bazan, as well. It has been an interesting exercise, to say the least. There have been tears and white-knuckle grips on chairs as I have listened to these songs. I could see myself again in my farmhouse bedroom listening to this band. And then in the 15 subsequent residences I’ve lived in the years since. More than one song transported me just to the side of a particular stage, the sound of the music filling the lofty space around me, the scritchy concrete floor beneath my feet, summer breeze off the lake wafting in from the open doors behind the band, the oh-so-familiar annual smell/taste/feel of that festival. Friends close at hand. All of us transfixed.

I will close with this song, off It’s Hard to Find a Friend. Now that I’ve escaped my own church town, the lyrics have taken on a whole new meaning for me. It’s a bit unsettling how fitting it is, really.

Suspect Fled the Scene
Old friend, your horse is ready to ride when morning comes
From this church town
Where damning rumours drip from holy tongues

And it won’t go away
It won’t go away
It won’t go away

The fever to find the scapegoat fast and fix the blame
I know you never meant to leave the way you came

But it won’t go away
It won’t go away
It won’t go away

Looking down from their stained glass steeples
They’ll never know why you had to run

Ride as fast as you can
They’re shooting to kill

A Musical Pastime

Well, there’s been an explosion of music in our lives recently. I’ll save the unpacking of that statement for another post because it’s a lot. Anyhow…. in the meantime:

Sometimes, we just sit on the couch and binge-watch YouTube music.

A few particular favourites that come to mind tonight:

(This Bon Iver session is my go-to for testing sound issues on computers. I know that not everyone is a big Bon Iver fan. Well, I can’t make you love them, if you don’t.)

(This was our very first introduction to Kishi Bashi. Love, love, love.)

(Over the past 20 years, I’ve been been to so many performances and bought so many recordings that have involved these men. Heck, I own at least three Pedro The Lion t-shirts — I’ll need to do a whole blog post on David Bazan. Anyhow, Lo Tom makes me feel all sorts of feels.)

(How does she make such beauty seem to effortless? She’s just that damn talented. Her album Changing of the Seasons is one I love so much. Go check it out.)

(This was our introduction to London Grammar and I keep coming back to it. Is it possible to have a crush on someone’s voice? Because, I think I do.)



They were givers of hugs and holders of hands. When I was baby, when I became an adult.

One of the things that hit me hard after Grandma died was visiting her home and sitting on her couch and all I could think was how she would sit there next to me and hold my hand. If she was there. Which she wasn’t and wouldn’t ever be again.

And now, 4 years later, he’s gone, too.

I’m having waves of realization over how much of a constant, an anchor, they were in my life.

My other (adopted) grandparents have demonstrated a preference for their biological families. So, yeah, I don’t really feel bad for having a preference for my biological grandparents, thanks. The last time I saw the mother of my adopted father, she didn’t know who I was. Thanks for caring so much, grandmother.

Speaking of my adopted father, it becomes difficult to push away the hatred in my grief. He did so much behind the scenes to prevent me from spending time with my dad and his family. All those years, lost. Anger at my mother for letting her husband do that to me. Anger at my dad for leaving me and letting all those years of heartache invade my life. Anger at myself for choosing a life so far away and letting my adult years slip by so quickly, my life too full of debts and commitments to get away often enough.

Rage. Guilt. Sorrow. Grief.

Meanwhile, the world is exploding — not just with bombs and gunfire, but with fear, racism, reactionary diatribes, and more. Humanity just lost someone who loved people and gave back and it is difficult to see hope when it feels like everything beautiful is collapsing.

I know it isn’t. I see people embracing refugees with different skin and beliefs than them and I’m reminded that there’s always hope.

“There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tower high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach.” 
– JRR Tolkien

New Voices

I’ve spent many years trying to turn down some of the voices of my childhood. You know how it is: a situation approaches and all you can think is what your mother would say if she was there to lecture.

There were positive voices over the years, don’t get me wrong. But, the loudest, as is often the case, were the worst of them all.

It has been 17 years since I lived in my home country, and about 13 of those years have been living away from family. Much of that negativity has dissipated, fading into the background. Unfortunately, the voices I was listening to instead over the past 16 years have turned out to be just as toxic.

It is startling to me to realize how loud these influences are. While I don’t wish to dwell on them, I find I must untie all of the strings that pull on my mind — and untie them one by one. Tricky little buggers still get tangled and have to be unwound over and over…

I am trying to replace those voices with ones that are positive. This becomes confusing because I thought I was doing that before, and only jumped from one pile of shit to another. I’d rather not repeat the process again. But, I don’t want to hold back out of fear, either.

Perhaps, what is most needed is to strengthen my own voice first of all.

“Sometimes it is good fortune to be abandoned. While we are looking after our losses, our selves may slip back inside.”
-Ameni Rozsa


I am in my anger phase of grief and processing. It feels cathartic to be this pissed off, to vent with friends, to rage against injustice and abuses, to sift through the past 16.5 years, to rip up paper and throw away mementos that are associated with it all. But, though this sort of anger is therapeutic, I do not want it to settle into a form of bitter-anger. So, then, I wonder if I should try to stop the anger…

I ran across this quote today:

“Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean.”
– Maya Angelou

Exactly. Thank you, Maya. I can be angry. I need to be angry. This anger spurs me towards action, towards health, towards closure. This is a process, not a destination.


The reality is setting in. Or something like that.

I’m so very angry right now. And sad. Still sad. Even when I was happy this winter, it was fringed with sadness. But, now, much of the happy has been replaced by the anger.

As I mentioned before, I thought this was simply a couple of paths veering off from one another. I expected a bit of fallout, knowing there would be those who’d be unhappy with my choices. There would be some ripping and tearing as we pulled apart. Sure. All mend-able, though.

Now I’m finding years of history dredged up and called into question. So much that was not what it seemed. It’s wiping me out, dizzying in scale. I find myself often with a racing, pounding heart — hands shaking — stomach roiling — tears welling.

I’ve gone from dealing merely with the upheaval that comes with re-examining ones own beliefs, to now questioning the last 16 years of experiences and relationships. How often was I lied to?

Yet again in my life, trust has been smashed by those I put the most confidence in. My father left when I was little. My mom manipulated and criticized. My first step-father abused us. There were many instances of wacky religious leaders over the course of my childhood.

I think there was almost exactly a year’s gap in between leaving the abusive step dad behind and joining the church ministry team that would be my spiritual/emotional home for the following 15.5 years. Looking back, that year-long gap was a happy time, despite the parental divorce and turmoil and crap that went down. We had some fun, my mom and baby sister and I. There was much growth in my life.

Here I sit, nearly 16 years later, waiting for the coming Spring. I’m feeling a bit like my February back yard: haggard, beat up, and shit on. But, Spring is around that proverbial corner. Like back in ’98-’99, I have this chance to recreate myself, to grow.

I have to remind myself of this potential of new life. I have to face the betrayal and the grief and the anger and the fear…and then put it behind me so I can learn and grow.

(Honestly, though… I really  just want to throw things right now. And eat french fries.)

More Turbulence

I’ve recently found out that someone I’ve relied upon for years is a liar. Yes, yes… I know, many of us are. But, in this case, I’m not talking about standard, garden variety white lies– such as hiding the three doughnuts you ate for breakfast yesterday. This is full-fledged, relational-betrayal, multi-person-damage-causing deception.

I haven’t merely put my trust in this person… I’ve followed their advice for big and little decisions, interwoven most aspects of my life with theirs, worked side by side for over a decade, ran to their defense, fought to gain their approval, believed what they’ve told me…

For the last several months (year? or more?), I have just thought that our paths were slowly diverging. We’d walked together, but that was simply changing as life evolved and beliefs shifted in different directions. We could still be friends, though. Right?

As the fog I’ve emerged from has continued to clear, I’ve gone from just seeing the fork in the road ahead to looking behind and seeing unexpected carnage littering the path behind. How was I so blind? Why was I so sheltered from the violence? Is any of it my fault? Could I have stopped it?

I have moved from a place of elation at my freedom, to some sort of grieving. Anger, anxiety, depression. I should really be writing to help clear my head, but I’d rather just hide away in books.

Oh, Happy

Since last autumn, when I began to make some marked changes in my inner life and schedule, I have experienced moments of pure happiness. Moments so unexpected they’ve left me giddy.

“I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.’” – Kurt Vonnegut

Is it that the circumstances in my life have changed? Not hugely. I still have many of the same struggles (finances, business stresses, health). But I think these gems I’m enjoying are the result of simply slowing down, make space in my schedule, and allowing myself to be content. Noticing when something makes me happy. It sounds so cliche, I know. Whatever. It’s working.

Walking down the street, earbuds on, a perfect album playing in subtle harmony to the breeze wrapping around me. Amazing.

A fleeting exchange with the old lady jaywalking while I wait at the crosswalk:

“You rebel!” I say.

“I’m a wild thing,” she laughs.

The recently discovered sweet, seductive warmth of scotch.

Black coffee, on a quiet morning, with nowhere to be.

The hush during a heavy snowfall.

Words on paper written by a brilliant mind, leaving me gasping for air, heart pounding, or wiping away tears.

Tiny, simple bits of life. So easily grasped if I am aware. How have I let myself miss them these last few years? I won’t waste much time on regrets or worry that I’ll miss more in the future. I just want to be.

“In this story
we sit down on Luna Bridge
and catch snow in our cupped hands
and music is
coming from the houses
or it sings inside me
I begin to mend
Oh happy, oh happy, the end,
the end, the end.

In this painting
the whole world is navy blue
I run home from the mailbox
in all the dim of five o’clock
to see you.
Cars and trees go by me,
you are in the yard
and in my arms again

Oh happy, oh happy, the end,
the end, the end
Happy, oh happy
the end.”

– The Innocence Mission


Why Do I Write

Discussed briefly with someone the other day the difference between creating art (literature, etc) for a wage vs creating for personal reasons. It’s a point I’ve often pondered and had planned to blog about, and having it brought up again reminded me.

I’ve noticed that when I work on creative projects for specific people, it changes how I work. In some cases, my artistic abilities are hampered significantly. I worry instead of create. I ponder their reactions in my mind, instead of playing with ideas.

If I wrote for a wage, I would likely learn discipline and it would force me to put pen to paper. However, would I compromise in an effort to churn out content? Would I come to resent writing as a drudge? Or would I overcome all that hinders me and manage to write something worthwhile?

While I certainly could stand to learn some discipline in my writing, I feel that (for myself personally) writing is something I do because I need to write for myself. I must write for the sake of writing and for the sake of my own sanity, not for contracts and paycheques and acclaim.

The trouble is, I have to remind myself of this over and over as I write. Perfectionism and worries about peoples’ opinions continually hamstring my thought process. I have to quote Anne Lamott like a mantra in my head. Shitty first drafts. Shitty first drafts. Shitty first drafts.