I loan my voice and rhythm

to the one who never fits in,  

to the one in love with our planet,  

to the girl next door who is really something else, 

to the grandma rocking the gray hair with red lipstick on her lips,  

to the young gay couple mustering up courage for “coming out”,  

to the spiritual seeker who’s looking for the Immaterial in the material,  

to the guy spending his days at a boring desk job dreaming about dancing at night,  

to the mom and dad trying to pacify their children with some groovy beats during a long car drive, 

to the ones who need to have a good purifying cry because a shop owner kept following them around claiming that “people like you always steal”, 

to the ones who had to leave behind everything they knew and loved in order to be safe, 

to the ones who show up no matter what. 

I write about the exceptional which we call the everyday.  

I write about passion.

When real, suffering passionately. When called for, speaking passionately. When needed, touching passionately. When ignored and denied, inviting attention to it passionately. 

Yet, underneath it all, always, a sweet silence at the core of our being.

Here, we are always home.  

And though I make a lot of noise on the surface – the echoing drum beats, the notes stretched to their limits until my throat gives in – ultimately, I am inviting you to recognize the pulse deeper than the changing tempo.

The gaps between the notes and that which rests in between the lines. 

Simply, I write songs of love, though not always love songs.