I’ve been writing music since I was a little girl. Some of it has escaped the walls that held me at the time, others have been locked up, unfinished, never ready to be played for anyone.
I have ideas. I try to show you. I try to tell it as I see it, or maybe as a stranger might. I try to share a little piece of me and my surroundings with whoever wants to listen.
I don’t always know what it is that I want to say.
Sometimes, if I’m lucky, the song knows better.
When I was in college touring the midwest in my Chevey Lumina, I wrote a song called “Heroes Proved.” It was the middle of winter in Northern North Dakota and I was cold. I was on the road and alone a lot. I missed home, the smell of the sage and horse hair, black cows and the way the grass bends in the breeze.
I missed the neighbors and how they would come and visit on Sunday and linger over coffee.
And I missed cowboys, the ones I was convinced no longer existed in the world, except the few I left behind, scattered and lonely on the quiet scoria road.
I didn’t know if I would ever get back to that place for good.
I didn’t know if that place even existed anymore.
I didn’t know anything.
“Heroes Proved” was my way of asking the world to slow down. I was desperate for it, but in a completely different way then I am now.
Now that I’m home and never leaving.
Now that I’m home and watching the world drive by–rushing, digging, kicking up dust on the way to meet the bottom line.
At 20 years old I couldn’t see the future. At 20 years old what I was writing felt so personal and disconnected from my peers. At 20 years old I couldn’t have known the progress waiting to barrel down that dusty road toward my family’s ranch, bringing me and the world with it.
“Heroes Proved” hasn’t been on my set list for years. I moved it out of the way to make room for new words and ideas.
I never considered that some of my songs might have become more relevant to me over time.
This is one.