This week we played our first two gigs since March. When my husband injured his back, we made the difficult decision to step away from all our musical commitments, including our duo, Travelin’ Kind, so he could heal. I had no desire to perform or entertain solo—except maybe in the living room—and, truthfully, I needed the break too.
At first, I was a little untethered. Keeping the Travelin’ Kind machine rolling has consumed my days and nights for well over a decade, and in the past five years, it’s been a full-time operation.
With an open calendar, we decided we were long overdue for a catch-up with family and friends. We sold our PA system and all the excess gear we had accumulated to fund our trip and then took to the open road. We went to Louisiana, Iowa, and Pennsylvania. Our travels led us to the southern tip of Maryland, where opportunity waited for us to try something we’ve never done before: become camp hosts at a state park. As it turns out, we’re both pretty good at raking pine needles. Who knew?
I brought my acoustic guitar with me. It’s hard for me to leave home without it, because you never know when inspiration will strike. But instead of making set lists and practicing songs, I walked Dennis, rode my bike, and discovered what the newly opened space had to offer.
Movement was something my body was craving. I didn’t know it at the time, but my heart was too. Looking back, I can see I was carrying far more grief than I realized after losing my Mom in October. I tried to outrun it by staying busy, but thankfully, life had a way of sneaking in some checks and balances to steer me in the right direction. Mickey’s uncompromising back became the pause neither of us would have chosen—but both of us needed.
Creating an intentional break was scary at first. Usually, if a musician is not working, it’s called unemployment. I was afraid of losing everything we’d worked for, as if there were some musician retirement package waiting. There isn’t. I had convinced myself that if I weren’t constantly booking, promoting, and producing, I’d be left behind— forgotten. I confused making music with making a living.
What I eventually discovered is that there was nothing to lose. I was still at the heart of all those pursuits. My relationship with the music had simply been resting in the space between.
To play music again felt right. My guitar felt good in my hands. The bass I borrowed did too. My voice was still strong. My heart lit up when I sang songs I had written. I didn’t forget any chords or lyrics, at least not any more than I usually do. Everything was right where I left it, waiting for my return. By the third song, my husband was cracking a “family-friendly” joke about something I said, reminding me that our stage banter isn’t something you can rehearse. It’s just who we are.
From the outside, it may look the same, but everything has changed.
As I climb back into the saddle, I realize I’m on a different trail. When I was studying tai chi, I learned to ride the horse in the direction it’s already going—to move with it instead of trying to force it where I think it should go.
These past few months have been a practice in what that really means. Less obligation and more invitation. Less squeezing. More trust.