What does it mean to be a musician on a Saturday morning in Honolulu?

It means getting up, calling my sister in Oklahoma who’s turning fifty to sing happy birthday and talking plans, figuring out horn practice time for the morning: not too early but early enough to be ready to head out for errands and obligations. I’m going to the gym, to a paddling club meeting on the other side of the island, and to gather for the Chinese New Year parade where I’m meeting up with the Intertribal society of Honolulu to march in the parade. I’ve been given the honored position of pushing the wheelchair of the beloved leader of the club, my relative Bill Tiger. In the midst of all this, I am working on a song, or should I say, it’s working on me? This one is a stream of momentum that came forth a month ago around a couple of guitar chords. It has breath already, a shimmer, a direction. The words aren’t there yet. I will just have to follow it. I gather parts of it along the way, while traveling along the horizon of this earth, from Honolulu to LA to Park City and back. Faith and belief and an absolute love of dancing feeds it.

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