That was it.

That was all that was required of me. Existing. What a novel and completely foreign idea to me. It was his lessons on not only how to play, but how be; administered in the studio, on the endless road between shows and over beers following a set, where many times he had to patiently talk me off the ledge perfectionism continually pushed me towards, so that no matter how well I’d played, how well the show had gone, I’d still be dissecting myself and it. It turned out too that the very buttresses that I thought was allowing me to “lose myself in the music” was actually hindering me from the music itself.

Playing in a band is hard, and I played in many of them over the years, as a founding member, a regular contributor, a hired gun. I kept things simple. I became the glue between the noise and most of the times I wondered if people could hear me at all through the massive wall of guitar frequencies crushing their ear hairs.

I only showed off when explicitly indicated it was my turn (as previously mentioned, I discovered whipping my long hair around was a helpful addition) and at a slow crawl I started to position music at the front, ego at the back. Slights against my being were still met like the petulant musical prodigy I wanted to be, but ever so incrementally, I backed off forcing my musical opinions to the front. Projects that were not my own, I served my purpose. I became a helpful and supportive player.

Except when I wasn’t. Ego is a nasty lil’ bitch and if a self-serving band leader got a hold of the reigns, which happened every so often, I was pulled under. Every perceived slight became a theatrical proof of my unworthiness, and oh how I was buffeted around by others’ perception of me.

Their own emotions, their own stories became my own and rather than make them into songs like a good artist should, I just carried them and doused them with my addictions when they became too fiery to hold. Isn’t that the way though; the way we attempt to quell the flame of inadequacy feeds the flames even more.

As the years went by, I logged hours upon hours of gigs; shows, festivals, studio time but never wrote or played as myself; always some version of myself. I was engaging with what I loved in only the shallowest of ways.

Don’t get me wrong; what I was presenting I truly thought I was. But the fire of unworthiness still burned strong. And though I played innumerable songs written by an endless array of guitarists who could barely play their instruments, here I was, with the full weight of institutionalized knowledge behind me, immobilized.

The act of creation is the most powerful of all our magic and I had yet to find mine.

As the most consuming of my long-time musical collaborations began to crumble like a top heavy egoic tower, I started discovering my voice and began crawling out from under the rubble of “hired gun/sideman”. I began to write songs, like others seemed to; string some chords together, sing a melody over top, add some words about things I’d seen, felt or done and bam! A song!

It was still the most agonizing of processes.

During these years of initial unfolding, I wrote and recorded two solo albums; self-titled 2014, and Hymn 2016 as well as countless co-writes, and reems of unreleased solo material in various states of undress either drafted or demoed.

For all but one song in my career; “Come to Me in Cold Dark Slumber” from my self-titled album, my songwriting approach had felt like one of muscling into existence. Every note questioned, followed by doubt and then exhausted, mollified acceptance. Every song endeavoured to be written was coloured with judgement before my fingers touched the keys and a note left my throat. It had to be a song. It had to have a verse and a strong chorus. It had to have certain acceptable, diatonic chord progressions. It had to be performable on a stage with specific instrumentation. It had to be relevant. People had to like it. It was exhausting but I kept doing it because I didn’t know any other way.

Then a series of events; fortunate (the birth of my daughter) and otherwise (postpartum depression, booze) left me broken and unable to touch the piano.

I entered a dark night of the soul in early 2019. It was a darkness I had not encountered before. I had weathered dusky evenings, but it seemed the light of day could not abate this endless night.

Exacerbated by a year and a half of sleep deprivation since the birth of my daughter, I struggled for months until I enacted four things; I turned and faced my demons, I started going to counselling, I began journaling daily, and I started writing songs again.

I believe it was the songwriting that saved me (though the other three didn’t hurt) and the journaling became the lyrics to my next album; my most honest, raw and beautiful. Words I would never think to describe my music.

It feels somewhat odd to describe my songwriting process now. In truth, it feels more like a dictation. Not in a religious or divinatory way, rather, I just open a door and a song comes in.

I know it sounds pretentious and lord knows I worried once about how I presented as a songwriter and musician, but the truth is none of that matters much anymore. The pandemic has torn off the last remaining scab of self-doubt. I have discovered through self-acceptance, authenticity is born. And the joy and yes, relief that comes from writing from an unknowable place now is a light I refuse to let go out.

Once my daughter is asleep in the early evening - if I can muster it and not collapse into an exhausted heap on my bed - I sit in the dark at the little grand piano in our front room of our house and wait.

Most times what comes first is a melody. Sometimes it’s a short phrase that seems to hold no promise. Or worse, I believe it to be something I’ve heard before, someone else’s, but I trust and continue to write.

I play. I breathe. I settle into the sacred moment.

I play some more and through the various lenses of my extensive education, lived experiences and influences, the mystery of a song unfolds itself to me.

I believe my songwriting process now to be a culmination of my acceptance of who I am; a classical musician at heart, a composer in my fingertips, an honest, raw ache in my throat, a shadowed self in the wings, and an artist. At the time, I wanted to announce who I was and what is behind all the ego structure that has been crumbling around me ever since this journey began.

Composing now, in the traditional sense, of writing on musical staff notation has led me back to myself.

I feel more myself as songwriter, pianist and vocalist than I ever have been.

This is also strangely out of necessity. The logistics of childcare coupled with daily exhaustion meant that organizing band rehearsals seemed absolutely out of the question. What was I to do but be one with myself and write for myself? While She Sleeps then strangely feels simultaneously like a return home and a journey outward. 

That light I refuse to let go out, I now hope to stoke in others. This website is the portal into my relationship with The Song. Thank you for being here.

I was born and raised in Treaty 6 territory—the traditional and ancestral territory of the Cree, Dene, Blackfoot, Saulteaux and Nakota Sioux and home to the Métis Nation Regions 2, 3 and 4. I am honoured to currently call Moh’kinsstis, and the traditional Treaty 7 territory my home. I bow to the traditions of the Blackfoot confederacy whose home I humbly share: Siksika, Kainai, Piikani, as well as the Îyâxe Nakoda and Tsuut’ina nations. This territory is also home to the Métis Nation of Alberta, Region 3.

Finally, I would like to recognize and celebrate all Nations – Indigenous and non – who care for and steward the land for generations to come. I send my gratitude to all those who continue to keep the knowledge and traditions of these nations. Thank you.

– Kenna