The Shape of Listening
Part 1/2, the undoing of one album leading to another, a new song on Sept 30th and stippling sketches.
This is where it begins: it was July 2022 and I booked a solo stay for a week at a cottage in Chertsey, QC. Given the circumstances of the world at that time, a getaway meant more than ever. I had been writing for this album for the better part of two years. At that point, songs were building nicely and I thought I was nearing the finish line. The best outcome desired from this visit was to listen through to what I had so far and make some key decisions to move forward. What I walked out with was totally different.
My relationship to nature growing up was limited at best, although raised near the rocky mountains most of my life, I felt better acquainted with suburbias. The moon light in the forest at night, the sounds of different creatures, the names of plants and trees—all of these were more or less mysteries to me. Over recent years, camping trips and long hikes began to change that. We would pause to listen to the wind as we made our way to a peak, sometimes laying on a bed of fallen leaves looking up at the trees.
One year, I was gifted binoculars and a bird book for my birthday, and my love for these flying creatures quickly overtook me. Camping trips taught me what loons sound like, mating frogs kept me up at night, early morning rises meant seeing mist gather over lakes, the rays of a new day breaking between soft clouds of white.
I slowly began to appreciate what the natural world was abundant with: sound.
( voice memos from one of my camping trips, frogs, loons)
Being that every other experience in nature was always accompanied by someone, this cottage trip alone was a big step for me. I remember arriving, setting up my speakers and laptop and ignoring them completely for the first day. I felt drawn to the windows, the fireplace, the forest all around. The first days were spent mostly in silence, long walks and visits to a nearby pond. I could feel myself avoiding the task at hand; to listen through to my songs and make decisions. I’d sit at the front entrance and watch small critters pass by, one afternoon a hare turned up and looked at me, another, a chipmunk scurried away at the sound of my steps.
One evening, I made up my mind, brewed some tea and brought my laptop and speakers to the living room. I’d made sure I was equipped with enough wood to last a few hours and started to light a fire. Opening up my files, I slowly worked my way through the body of work I had built. I listened and listened, making sure I skimmed over every big and small idea. The feeling that overtook is hard to describe, it felt like something was slipping from my fingers and falling to the floor, invisible and heavy:
I have to start all over.
A sense of grief, confusion and some embarrassment came over me. I had heard of this happening to other musicians before but I’d never understood it quite like I did then.
“Am I really going to start all over?”
This decision wasn’t a light one and a sense of relief did not follow. I must add that I am an independent artist, my music is released under my own label which I co-own with my manager and friend Jeff. I’ve always felt lucky to continue to be able to choose how and when I release music, and the choice to remain independent has been very conscious. The reality is that this (making music) is my bread and butter and too long of a stretch between releases brought on a sense of fear and stress. My team is small and always kind (thanks Jeff) but I didn’t want to let anyone down.
Blanket wrapped around my shoulders, I could see the sky turning black to blue outside the window. My body felt like lead and I curled up on the floor near the fire and fell asleep.
On the drive back home the question I was left with was: what has happened with my relationship to listening? How is it that I could feel so disconnected from so much material I had spent countless hours toiling over?
I do not know if I have synesthesia—I’ve never looked into it—but what I do know is that when I hear words and melodies, shapes quickly follow. Somewhere along the line, though (with the album that will never see the light of day), I forgot how to really listen and feel those shapes inside of me. Do I like this (shape) ? Is it honest?
As the days turned into weeks in this new chapter of starting over, my mind kept returning to my time at the cottage: the sounds of nature and the animals’ keen awareness of their surroundings, their bodily reactions earnest—after all, their survival depends on it. The hare remained etched in my mind, turned toward me, discerning whether I was a threat or a friend. Alert and so very alive.
This experience with the forest, though far from the city, followed me in small ways into the parks of Montreal: dogs turning when their owners called their names, gazing up at the trees at the sound of a squirrel. My eyes began to selectively see the ways listening looked true:
two friends leaning into one another across a picnic table, holding on to each other’s every last word,
two furrowed brows cutting a sharp V on a woman’s forehead, clutching her phone tightly, leaning against a tree, receiving sounds from somewhere distant in a foreign language I don’t speak.
Signs of listening began to feel closer, easier to identify, and soon I started to find them inside myself again. I’d pick up the phone and call a friend, lying flat on my back their voice pressed against my ear. I’d make music for a few hours and remember to stand and notice whether the melody made me see a true shape, want to move closer, sit still, or sway. I’d meet a friend and realize that when a word entered the conversation with a certain kind of weight, I would ask for it to be repeated and then carry it with me, saying it over to myself on my walk home, like circles in my head.
These changes felt so small, so subtle—yet they shifted everything. Deep down, the knowing I had feared lost, slowly began to make itself known again.
It sounds a lot simpler than it is to put into practice, but our bodies really do tell us everything we need to know. So I ask you, dear listener: what makes you turn? What makes you lean (into, away) if even slightly? Do you keep returning to a place? Does it help you hear things more clearly?
I hope that shapes of listening may find you and be felt.
It is with a very leaned in, excited (and hunched over) body above my keyboard that I tell you the first single off my upcoming album is coming out on Tuesday, Sept.30th/2025.
I’ll meet you back here soon—somewhere in the middle— for Part 2
I'm strapped in and ready for the journey. Wherever it goes.
It’s in the silence that I can hear my own voice again, I’m so happy you were able to hears yours too, that’s where creation comes from.