I grew up in the ’70s and ’80s singing with my big family in rural Missouri. Friends sometimes joked that visiting the Brunks was like finding yourself in the middle of a Broadway musical, with someone bursting into song with only the slightest provocation.
Our home was set at the edge of a large meadow ringed by wooded hills. I remember hanging out laundry in the back yard, singing at the top of my heart into the immense space, hearing my voice echo back. Sometimes I was Maria from the Sound of Music; sometimes I was Annie singing about her hard knock life (this was if the laundry was excessive, which it could be with such a large family); always in the back of my mind I was imagining someone important overhearing me and saying, "wow, that girl has talent!" And then of course they would swoop me up out of my mundane existence, for what great future I didn't even bother to imagine — whatever it was would be a fun adventure.
Years later, I had had plenty of fun adventures. I had traveled around the world, learned to speak a little Bengali and how to find my way around Kathmandu and get lost and found and lost and found again . . . I had followed spiritual yearnings, seeking deeper meaning and discovering my teacher within. I had tried out jobs from piano teacher to caricature artist, health food store manager, massage therapist, library assistant, restaurant hostess, and street vendor. I had a great career as a web and graphic designer. I temporarily joined a dear group of people co-creating intentional community in northern New Mexico and I had married my husband Rob with whom I had my natural home births and a good portion of my adventures with.
Still no one had "discovered" me, and it was no surprise because in all my busy-ness I had put music as a last priority. It sat there, a smothered longing, waiting for someone to notice and give it the importance necessary to come into the light again. I could mostly tell by the way I was jealous when other people sang in public that there was anything alive there for me at all.
Then one night I had a dream. I was sitting in the bleachers in a huge stadium with many other people. The space in the middle was a big blank nothingness. We were all just silently waiting. For what? A song came to mind — my friend Jeremy Roske's song based on Donovan's soundtrack to Brother Sun, Sister Moon: "If you want to live life free, take your time, go slowly. Do few things but do them well; heartfelt words grow purely." I felt a little awkward because everyone else was so silent but the urge to just sing was so strong, and I decided to let it out. Me, nobody special, started singing into the silence because I liked to . . . I enjoyed feeling the sound come out, enjoyed the beauty and the meaning of the words, enjoyed the gift of the song from my friend. And then, when I was done, I got up, got my things and started to walk out of the stadium. Everything was still silent with all the people waiting . . . and then, as I walked up past one of the last rows of bleachers, someone else started singing. I felt gladness.
I could hear the whisper well up inside me: We are the ones we've been waiting for.
Breathe in the World was my first album. I made it during a transformative time in my life. I was three months pregnant with my third son when I wrote my first complete song, the title track, on Mother's Day, and received my first shipment of CD's from the manufacturer just days before his birth on Christmas Eve 2008.
As with each of my pregnancies, I engaged this one as an "inner-work intensive", seeking to re-align myself with my purpose for being on the planet, taking inner inventory and seeking to bring my very best self to my life and to my children. In the course of this self-inquiry I began to anchor my dream of writing and recording music. During that time I also found myself at a crossroads in my marriage, realizing that I was seeking much more than to just hang in there until one of us passed; and after nine years of just hanging in there best as we could, I knew our relationship needed an infusion of life and new meaning. I knew there were unopened wedding gifts of love and joy and understanding between us, and I found myself pushing from all angles to uncover these gifts. These songs represent the inner journey to find the answers I sought, to find a blueprint for living truly and deeply, freeing myself from unconscious patterns. While recording the songs and fidgeting with them, listening, finding the sounds that spoke to me, they consistently helped me re-connect with peace and wholeness amidst the intensity. After sharing the songs with others and hearing them reflect similar experiences, I started to see that this was a gift others could benefit from too.
The next spring, amidst full-on new baby focus, I struggled to stay connected with my creative process. My practice was to occasionally take meditation breaks at the piano, and record whatever came up in the moment. Lots of what came through I never listened to again; however some of it stuck with me and became new songs. When I was invited to provide music for a wholeness meditation service at our local Unity Center, I was thrilled to realize that I had already created five pieces that would be extremely appropriate for the focus of the service. The soundtrack for this service made up my second album, Wholeness Meditation.
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