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Bite of the Month - Summer 2004 |
A Story from the Book "Sliced Bread"By Rosemary Phillips (written in 1996)Dear Reader: this is rather a long Bite of the Month so I’ve broken it down into separate mini-bites as follows:
- A dream about John Denver
I had a dream. It was the summer of 1993 when I was living on Quadra Island, east of Vancouver Island. I awoke early one morning with just about every fibre of my body electrified. It had been a most startling dream, the kind that I knew meant something very profound for me, that would have an effect upon my life. Over the years I've had a few like that, where the dream lingers on, and on. A dream about John Denver I had walked into a huge convention centre, somewhat similar to the Trade and Convention Centre in Vancouver. In one corner, near an entrance, sat John Denver playing his guitar and singing. Nobody was stopping to listen. "Don't you have any takers?" I asked. "No. It's still too soon," was his answer. "How be if I help you pack up your things?" I offered. We put away his instruments and equipment and placed them ready to be taken away. The scene changed to a large hall, like a cafeteria, with people sitting at long tables. John made room for me to sit down. Instead of sitting down I found myself climbing in the rafters of the building, amongst cobwebs and dust, in a frantic attempt to get back down to the ground floor. Then, in a flash, I again found myself sitting beside John in the cafeteria. He suggested we take a walk across the gigantic room where, at a distance from the tables, was an incredible stairway made of silver stone or marble. At the top of the stairs was an archway of light, and from beyond the archway we could hear the sounds of celebration and happiness, music and laughter, like there was a really good party going on. We ascended the stairs, side by side, and as we came to the top and the entrance to the archway we looked at each other and realized that we were definitely not dressed for a party. A women's boutique appeared to my left, and beyond that a men's boutique. "You go in and get what you need, I'll go into the men's boutique, then we can meet back here," John said. I entered the boutique and asked for everything, including a shower to get rid of the cobwebs and dust. I found myself dressed in a white Grecian style gown with gold ornamentation around my neck, wrists, and in my hair, totally out of character for me. I even had gold slippers on my feet. When I met up with John he was wearing a gold lamé suit, again, totally out of character for him. We walked towards the archway and stood ready to enter when I woke up with the feeling that I had really been standing in that archway with John, that it wasn't just a dream. Too many coincidences Too many coincidences occurred for me to brush the whole dream off as mere fantasy. I kept hearing John Denver singing on the radio. Then when visiting the local second-hand shop, I rifled through a pile of records and pulled out a handful of his albums. I picked Windsong and learned Looking For Space. Within a week my friend Lori phoned from Vancouver to say that John was appearing at the Orpheum Theatre in a benefit performance for the Tatsenshini Wilderness Park in northern British Columbia. She asked if I'd like to go. I jumped at the opportunity and she agreed to have a friend buy our tickets. I left work early on the day of the concert and drove down to Nanaimo to catch the ferry to Vancouver. It was behind schedule and I knew I wouldn't have time to get to Lori's to change my clothes, so I got dressed for the theatre in the ferry washrooms. After we docked in the Horseshoe Bay terminal I drove faster than my usual snail's pace to get downtown Vancouver to the theatre for what I thought was an eight-o'clock show time. It was as though a space in the parkade had been saved for me, right next to the theatre. I parked the car and with what I thought were five minutes to spare I ran into the front entrance to pick up my ticket. I had been wrong, the show had started at seven-o'clock. The ushers waited quietly with me by the theatre doors until an appropriate moment came to lead me to my seat – front row centre! Premier Mike Harcourt was being introduced to make his presentation and during a period of applause I was led to the front and sat next to Lori. Later in the evening as we watched John perform we both sensed that he was experiencing great difficulties in his life, his energy just didn't seem right, as though he was unhappy. His autobiography, published two years later, explained why, he had been going through a sticky divorce. Meanwhile, in response to what we had sensed, I wrote to John through his manager, and recounted my dream. I also sent him a copy of his own words to Looking For Space telling him that words he wrote twenty years earlier had just as much meaning now. I felt he needed to hear them, but whether or not he ever got the letter I may never know.
To me the dream meant that I would one day perform with John in
another form of healing concert similar to the one held at the Tidemark
Theatre in Campbell River in 1992 in which Ann Mortifee had been
the guest artist. 1993 was too soon to do it again, besides, I sensed
that the dream was telling me I had to prove myself, mostly to myself,
and that would take time. When I did make inquiries about how much
it would cost to have John perform I was told it would be $75,000
U.S. which meant tickets in the Mum has cancer In the summer of 1997, the summer that I had finally completed the first draft of Sliced Bread, Mum took a bad turn; cancer had spread throughout her brain and abdomen. The immediate family was faced with its first real experience of dealing with death and dying, and it certainly wasn't easy, particularly when Mum fell through cracks of the medical world. The specialist who had diagnosed Mum's Hodgkins Lymphoma, and who was asking her to go for more tests, ended up in hospital himself in Vancouver and was no longer available. Her family doctor went on a long holiday. It was all a wait-and-see situation, but in the wait-and-seeing the cancer spread rapidly. Her nausea was responded to with a prescription for anti-nausea pills by the replacement doctor who hadn't looked further to investigate the cancer. Then it was all too late. Our dear mother was dehydrated and very ill and had to be taken to emergency. Later that day the oncologist on duty kept telling me, "Your mother is a very sick woman." As if I hadn't noticed. I was wracked with guilt, cried profusely, and broke down when a nurse took me aside to let me talk it through. I, a healer, had not been able to see it coming. Or maybe I had and just felt totally unable to do anything because of the relationship between mother and daughter. Falling through the cracks of medicine During her hospital stay Mum was taken for one test after another, and there were several doctors and departments involved, coming and going. It must have been very confusing for Mum who, in experiencing the effects of the steroids, was not fully cognisant of what was going on around her, and sat with a smile on her face as specialists tried to explain that the prognosis was not good, that the cancer was spreading and that she was dying. A representative of palliative care visited along with the specialists, but still the information was not sinking in. I don't think it really sank in with the family either. We rather expected Mum to pull through like she had with everything else in her life. She was not enjoying being in the hospital so after consulting with the medical staff we decided to get a room ready for her in my home to take her out of the hospital environment. On one of her more lucid days I asked her what she would like to have in her room and where, and at the same time asked if she really knew what was going on. Of course she didn't. I was then presented with the difficult task of telling her the truth, that we hadn't expected her to live through the week and that she was dying. "Well then," she answered in her usual matter-of-fact tone of voice, "thanks for finally letting me know. Now, let's get on with it." We both had an understanding that death is not the end of life, that life continues beyond this physical world, and she looked forward to meeting up again with her father, Ernest, and other relatives in the spiritual world. While discussing this with her I asked her to find a unique way to let me know that she was OK when she got there. Once Mum's room had been painted and furnished my brother and sister-in-law helped move her from the hospital. It wasn't exactly her home but she had all her important things around her, her blue curtains and her favourite pictures. We arranged for a nurse to make regular visits and monitor her progress. Mum was then able to communicate with friends and family to let them know that she was not well, but still she wouldn’t let them, and her youngest children, know how ill she really was, how bad she really felt, and how much she wanted to go Home. It was during those two weeks that Mum and I had some very deep discussions about all that had happened, was happening, and could happen. We also had fun, and shared secrets. We also had arguments, as any mother and daughter would. After a visit from her youngest son and daughter she decided to go back to her own apartment, a forty-five-minute drive away. Once again she fell through the cracks of the care system. The support of daily visits from nurses didn't come together smoothly. I had needed to get going on a new contract job that had already been delayed a month and was not able to visit Mum as often as I had hoped. She had been aware of this when she made her choice, but she really wanted to be in her own place. The responsibility of visits then fell upon my brother and his wife who lived closer. She had three weeks of enjoying the sunshine pouring through her apartment window, the flowers in her garden and the birds in the trees outside. She had her music and her television, and visits from friends and family, and daily she made comment about how beautiful it all was and how blessed she was to have the extra time. Doctors had insisted that she receive radiation and chemotherapy, and in doing so she could possibly live another five years. What they didn't take into account was the whole being, the woman who was really ill, was tired of pain, tired of not being well, tired of the family struggles and 'bickering', and was basically a very tired human being. Possibly the drugs and the tumours had affected her ability to make a clear, truthful decision as she agreed to undergo the radiation treatments. Her response when I asked her why she had changed her mind to accept the treatment was, "I felt sorry for the doctors and wanted to give them something to do." Mum dies Within the first week of treatment Mum was taken off the steroids, had a seizure, fell, and ended up in intensive care. It was a painful and humiliating ending to her life as she passed over, struggling, on August 23, just before midnight. She had been strapped to an ICU bed that was tilted with the head downwards under glaring fluorescent light, and she had a tube down her throat to help her breathe. Her skin was purple from the fall she had taken and from the many needles that had been forced into her as the nurses and doctors tried to stabilise her with drugs. It was definitely not the kind of ending that Mum had wanted. I felt helpless in the situation. I felt guilty. I hadn't been physically there for her dying but instead had gone home to phone and link with all our healer friends and family. I was told to let her go and to visualise her gracefully and easily leaving the body. Mum had always claimed that I was the most powerful person she had ever known, and that she often felt threatened in my presence, and her passing was evidently something she needed to do without me physically there. On top of that I knew my siblings would accuse me of controlling the situation if I interfered. I knew she was not alone, as I later found out, that healers in England were linking with her, and even the late Harry Edwards, the great English spiritual healer, was with her in the spirit world helping her across the threshold to her new life. Could I have done more? I underwent counselling to talk my way through the pain and the feeling that I had abandoned her in her hour of need. I was angry that something that could have been peaceful and graceful was instead so tragic. I cry about it even now. If we do indeed choose our way of dying, why do we choose such painful ways? A week after Mum passed, Princess Diana died in a car crash in Paris. I cried openly. Diana's passing provided me with an incredible opportunity to just ball my eyes out and really get into my grief at any time, in any place. Mum comes back to say she’s OK A month later I received a phone call from a woman Mum had befriended
in her last two years of life, a woman she really liked and one
I had no contact with other than to send her a notice of Mum's passing.
"Rosemary, does the 23rd mean anything to you?" she asked. "Well," she continued, "on the 23rd, this last week, I was sitting quietly in the living room and I saw your mum sitting on the couch opposite me. She looked happy and just smiled away. I knew from that smile I had to phone you and let you know that she's OK." This was wonderful news. I now had my confirmation from Mum, just like I had asked, that she was OK on the other side of life. She had chosen a most unlikely way to reach me through someone I barely knew, and to me this was validation. She has given me many messages since, sometimes apologising for the difficulty at the end, and giving details of her journey and healing on the other side. Regardless, I as a human still feel the pain, the loss, the grief, but as time moves on the pain eases. There's just something about losing mothers that isn't easy and we all go through it. John Denver goes Home in a plane crash A month later, on Canadian Thanksgiving weekend, while I sat quietly
at the computer in my studio, I heard the announcement on the radio
that John Denver had died in a plane crash. My instant thought was,
"He's been called Home." At that very moment, two eagles
rose from the bluff at the end of the road. I started to cry, but
at the same time I smiled for he had finally gone Home while doing
what he loved to do – flying. Fire And sometimes things do come in threes. On November 5th, Guy Fawkes Night, my home was set on fire. I had sensed that something was up, but continued to load up my van to go and teach reflexology at the Kin Hut on Departure Bay. I heard a bang in the sheds before I left and my stomach bottomed out, rather like being scared shitless (my body must have known something that my mind didn't). I went running into the house to the bathroom then returned to continue loading the van and left for the Kin Hut. During the class I heard the fire sirens and exclaimed to the group that there must be a fire. After the class, as I stood on the beach taking a refreshing breath of sea air I saw a fire truck returning and thought to myself that the fire must be out. I drove home and as I turned the corner I noticed that the living room lights were on. I never left the lights on because of the old wiring in the building. The only light that should have been on was the spotlight over the driveway. But where was that? There was just a black hole. And parked in the drive was a 9-1-1 security vehicle. Where were the sheds? I couldn't see them. Then I turned to look at my studio at the back of the house and noticed all the smashed windows, the black burned siding and blackened drapes fluttering in the wind and rain. I felt ill. I felt guilt, because I was living in that house as caretaker to protect it from that very thing, from vandalism and fire. The fire had started in the sheds and was possibly triggered by a firecracker. I thought maybe it had been the open can with paint thinner that was left over from cleaning brushes when I painted the outside of the house a few weeks earlier. The fire chief kept reminding me, however, that it takes a spark to make a fire, and that he suspected it was a case of vandalism. The damage was bad but not devastating. My creative space, the beautiful back porch where I had worked on the manuscript for Sliced Bread and had done my art work, was basically destroyed. The old wooden sheds had gone up in flames like a roaring inferno and neighbours, knowing that Sliced Bread was on the computer, smashed the front door and broke in to grab the computer before the flames leapt to the house - they did, curling around the nearest window and around a hurricane lamp full of kerosene, missing it completely but licking a wooden plaque which said, "Today is the begining of something wonderful – the rest of your life." The plaque had been a gift from Mum. She had found it at a yard sale and thought I would enjoy the quote, even with the spelling error in it. At that point the hoses were aimed at the flame, broke all the windows and pushed ash and glass right through to the kitchen and dining room. Firemen had broken in after the visible flames were extinguished and punched a hole through the ceiling and roof to make sure the flames were not spreading under the eaves. One fireman stood in front of the plaque and read the quote and laughed out loud before he scooped up the charred remains of the many photos I had on the counter and carried them into the kitchen away from the main water and smoke damage. The neighbour across the road had made arrangements with security to tell me to go over to her house when I got home from class. She gave me a shoulder to cry on and a couple of brandy's to calm me before she took me back across the street to view the damage. We entered through the broken front door and felt the wind blowing through the house. When I walked through to the studio I saw, in what little light was left, two inches of water on the floor, glass everywhere, books soaking wet and covered in soot and, by my drafting board, a pile of melted plastic that was once my thirty-year-old set of drafting squares from Ryerson. They had been hanging on a hook right where the flames came in and, because of the heat, had melted and dripped down into a plastic sculpture, much like the zorches I had done while going through design school. My neighbour placed a cot in her dining room for me to sleep on that night, but I couldn't, I just tossed and turned. By six in the morning I was up and back into the house to do cleaning. My poor cat Prim had been caught in the middle of it all. The fire had started in her hideaway area, but the security guards had taken care of her and watched over her. She was so happy to see me again and be beside me even though I was numbed and shaking. I had phoned the owners of the house the night before and they took the appropriate steps for the insurance and clean-up crew. I wanted to begin mopping up all the water myself and headed to the back door to grab my mop only to be caught in stride with the realisation the back door no longer existed, and neither did anything else that was in that vicinity. I had to laugh. There was definitely some humour in this situation. I had been working on a huge community project and for the third time in two months I had to take a break and a few days off. First there had been Mum's death, then the car crash, and now the fire. I thought I was holding up pretty well until I went to a scheduled meeting at our local MLA's office. His assistant asked, "And how are you holding up, Rosemary?" I fell to pieces and had to be consoled as the MLA put the coffee pot on and invited me to sit down and take a few moments to pull myself together. The project itself was an immense challenge and I often wonder if it came along at this particular time in my life to give me the necessary distractions from the overwhelming dramas going on in my personal life. That winter I remained without a studio and with my view of the ocean blocked by plywood boards. My belongings had been dried out, books were opened up and blew in the breeze of the dehumidifiers and heaters, and a clean-up crew went through the house. Because I had no insurance on my own personal belongings I had to do a lot of the clean-up myself. A construction crew gradually rebuilt the back end of the house and my studio, but it was never quite the same again. Many of the few items I had carried with me for thirty years were either damaged or thrown out. So, maybe the fire was the beginning of the rest of my life. Stuff Through the grief, pain and humiliation of those few months I saw hope and humour. I put pen to paper and composed a song called “Stuff” (Feel free to substitute an experience in your own life for those lines that are italicised) My mum took a turn and passed away My car's rear-ended and towed away My world, my life, is shifting fast, But wait! I know, I'm always on time, My life's been filled with a wonderful glow Whales & Dolphins - be careful what you ask for, you might just get it In the spring of 1998 I felt the need to do a recording. I had received a message from Mum, through a Spiritualist medium, and she told me to keep on with the singing. The time seemed right and my income tax return provided me with some extra cash to cover expenses. It was also time to add another John Denver song to my repertoire. A friend told me that there were some of John's albums in a local second-hand shop, and as I looked through the rack of albums I pulled one out, and in my hand I held the album Seasons of the Heart. There on the cover was a picture of John standing silhouetted against a stone stairway, and above him was an arch with light pouring down on top of him, just like the picture of the dream of 1993. I instantly knew that I had to learn an important song from that album. It was Shanghai Breezes. I also knew that song had to be recorded and sent to those who had worked with John, including Cherry Lane, his publishers. The key words in the song were, "It's funny how you sound as if you're right next door, when you're really half a world away." This was goose bump time. The recording project grew. Originally I was just going to do
a few tapes, but fellow musicians insisted I should do CDs. I booked
studio time in Campbell River and the night before the recording
session I checked myself into a hotel to rest, review the music
and pray. I sat on my bed overlooking the Discovery Passage, scanned
my notes and said, "God, and Spirit, you had better be with
me on this one. I'm really scared." I knew that was a tall order. In all the years I had lived on Vancouver Island I had never once seen more than a couple of whales, and just three dolphins that swam and played around Gowlland Harbour. The next day I did the recording and later went to stay with friends on Quadra Island. The following morning another friend invited me to a luncheon in Courtenay, south of Campbell River. That meant taking the ten o'clock ferry from Quathiaski Cove. When we had parked on the ferry I heard an announcement over a ferry worker's walkie-talkie, "Does anyone down there have a camera? There's a pod of whales in the passage." I knew instantly that I was getting my sign and ran up to the viewing decks. Then the captain announced, "There's a pod of sixty whales in front of April Point." By this time everybody on board was vying for a view. As the ferry pulled out of the cove we could see tails splashing and whales breaching. It was a spectacular sight. Unfortunately, boaters had already received the news through the airwaves and made a bee-line for the pod and surrounded it. My stomach lurched and I had to look away. I had asked for whales but I didn't want them subjected to this kind of harassment. As the ferry neared Campbell River the sight of the whales diminished, so I turned to look at the dock. I thought, "So, you've given me the whales but where are the dolphins?" A worker, who noticed me standing alone on the upper viewing deck, yelled down at me, "Look behind you!" There in the wake of the ferry was a school of dolphin leaping and playing. It only lasted a moment, but that moment was just long enough to give me the proof that I had asked for. I then knew that I was doing the right thing, and that John Denver was really with me. The recording was completed and sent out as a gift to my friends and to those who worked with John. I thought no more about it as I became involved in another community development project. Then one night, a few months later, I had another dream. John says, "I'm back." I found myself sitting in a beautiful, cozy little house, with
golden sun pouring through the windows onto the warm wooden floor
and white furniture. Everything in the room had its purpose and
place. I sensed I had been there before. When going out into the
cobblestone courtyard I came across a woman who said, "John
usually comes here, for his healing time." Over The Rainbow Green is the colour for healing. And dreams do come true. This particular dream helped me understand that I needed to leave the contract position I was with and thereby remove all the stress and aggravation of an office mutiny, and begin preparing for the actualisation of my bigger dream, a concert. Preparation began in spring for Over The Rainbow, a celebration of life concert to honour those who have gone from this life, and to celebrate the life we have. It was also planned as a tribute to John Denver and to Gary Layne, a musician from Duncan who had passed over the previous year with cancer. The concert date was set for Canadian Thanksgiving Weekend, October 8th, at the new Port Theatre in Nanaimo, the second anniversary of John Denver’s passing over. The talent that joined the show was remarkable and extremely gifted: Marjorie Koers on violin; Gwyneth Evans on harp; John Forrest on double bass; Peter Leclerc on guitar; and percussionist extraordinaire Jim Salmon, a.k.a. Fish, on drums and Jestick. We were also joined by singer-songwriter Francine Jarry from Montreal, and Native entertainer-storyteller Winston Wuttunee. Added to the performing talent was a wonderful technical crew that was sensitive to the whole concept of the show. Everything just fell into place, from the booking of the theatre to the selection of music and promotion, and support from the local hospice society and sponsors. The only thing that wasn't falling into place was an audience. Once again the concept was a little different and unusual, and of course, I was not a big name entertainer. Those who were familiar with my singing and music and shows knew that it would be a good experience. But filling so many seats was a real challenge. When only a few tickets had been sold I decided to paper the house and fill the lower section of about 450 seats. I donated tickets to all the organizations and groups that would not normally get to experience a concert in such a beautiful place, people who were experiencing difficulties in their lives. Then the seats filled. While organising the concert I struck up an arrangement with friends who were beginning a publishing-on-demand business. I decided to offer Sliced Bread and produce it for the same night as the concert, in limited edition. That meant time was needed over the summer for the second major rewrite. As the concert date neared I was concerned about the low ticket sales and the over-head costs which were mounting. A relative sent me a gift of money. It couldn't have come at a more appropriate time. Once again I was taken care of. The concert itself was a wonderful experience. The stage was set with a display, much like in a celebration of life ceremony. I placed Mum's rainbow coloured blanket over a stool, and around and on the stool were photos of and memoriabilia of many who were being remembered. To one side was a single microphone, dimly lit, for the singers in spirit who were not able to physically join us. Lighting gobos were designed to give the back of the stage a beautiful rainbow and, when needed during the storytelling time, whales and dolphins. As usual I was a nervous wreck, with pre-performance jitters. I had found that being producer, director, promoter and performer is too much work, far too stressful and I was feeling the burden. But, prior to show time, after we had done sound check and were in our hotel rooms preparing for a light supper, we all saw a huge double rainbow spanning the skies over the centre of the city of Nanaimo. It was a breathtaking vision and a perfect sign from the heavens. As the opening strains of the song Over The Rainbow played, I stood in the wings praying, centering, reaching that peace and visualising the whole theatre filled with a wonderful healing light. I then felt calm and ready and walked out to sing Judy Garland's song – from the heart. That was followed by the story of the dreams of John Denver and the siting of whales and dolphins, and several of John's songs were woven throughout, including Looking for Space, Leaving on a Jet Plane and Shanghai Breezes. Before we knew it the first half of the show was over and it was intermission. Members of the audience were invited to write the names of loved ones they wished to remember on pieces of rainbow coloured paper and insert them into a beautiful blue glass vase, positioned at centre stage. I couldn't believe the response as people lined up from the front to the back of the theatre in both aisles and in no time the vase was filled with names. Concurrently the first edition of Sliced Bread went on sale in the lobby. During the second half of the show fellow performers shared their healing journey through story and song, and the closing number had the audience singing along to Look To The Rainbow. A dream had come true in that a second healing concert was accomplished (the first had been with Ann Mortifee in 1992), and Sliced Bread was on its first rising. The theatre had been full, not just with physical folks, but with folk from the spirit side of life. Several had seen the spirit of Gary Layne standing behind the dimly lit microphone. He and friend Ian, also in spirit, had seemingly been a part of the comedy scene that began when I forgot the words to Gary's song "How It Is". The show had needed more humour and these guys helped provide it. The musicians kept on playing and the audience hooted while I explained that I couldn't remember the words, that I was only human. A set of words were handed to me but they were for another song. I could actually see Gary and Ian laughing at me as I hesitated then finally managed to jump in with the last chorus. The audience loved it. Members of the audience had also noticed, throughout the time I was on stage, an image, a figure of light standing beside me, almost overshadowing me. I like to think that the figure beside me was John Denver in spirit, and that the original dream of 1993 really did come true, that we really did a concert together. Addendum, June 2004: There have been other dreams over the last few years, but most prominent was last December when he said, “We have to talk, you and I, about what we are doing here.” So I took some time that next morning and allowed the thoughts to flow freely in my journal. I acknowledged that I had been denying his communication, resisting - after all, who am I to be talking with John Denver. And why me when I was neither drawn to him and his career, nor had been a fan? I agreed to listen, and he talked about the urgency of needing to work for the environment and for humanity. A week later there was another major dream, the full impact of which I didn’t really realise until the morning of going to do the demo of “Yellowstone (Coming Home)”. Coming Back - Yellowstone (Coming Home) I met up with some folk who said, “John is coming back. You have to go and clean up the house.” I hadn’t a clue about what house they were talking about. I had never lived with John and was happily enjoying my own little home. Still, I found myself, as often happens in dreams, in a strange place, a house that definitely felt neglected, missing its occupants. It was a bit of a mess, and in the sink were three hats, one of them brown leather. A chap came in, said he was a friends of John’s and that he was there to do some repairs. The home then turned into more of an adobe structure, with very thick sandy coloured walls, thick openings for windows, and was two storeys high, with a courtyard in the centre, closed in with a roof. The walls had been patched with a darker colour, much like how roads look when the cracks have been patched. The floor was yellow sand. In the centre of the space was a huge sand coloured stone, about four feet high. Around the top of the stone were hieroglyphs. John’s friends had hung beautiful artwork on the wall. Everything was ready. I woke up. I didn’t know what to make of the dream but a series of coincidences took place to bring more light onto the issue, including continuous connections with wolves and wilderness – the main voice in the song. An acquaintance explained the hat – where you hang your hat is your home. Oddly enough last Christmas she was given a CD with a picture on the front of John Denver, wearing the brown leather hat. She also called the night before I was doing the demo to tell me this – timing was impeccable. Then that morning, as I wrote out the lyrics for the engineer, I realized that the huge sand coloured stone in the centre of the building was Yellowstone and the hat was (Coming Home). To me that was proof that the song “Yellowstone (coming Home)” had to be done, so I did it. I only had $100 but John Vere let me record the demo in his little den studio overlooking snow-covered trees and mountains. It was incredible. The energy was magnificent. I sent packages out to a number of folks associated with John Denver, by Express Post from Canada, but they never got past US Customs, in particular, the two packages to his family at Windstar Foundation. So I had to redo everything, went across the border myself and forwarded the demo through a US post office to Cherry Lane and The Estate and others for consideration as the voice to release the song. Permission is denied. So it remains. Yellowstone is still a song on paper, not released
to the world in a recording, but that doesn’t mean it can’t
be sung. John’s version of his song can be heard on the video
put out by PBS – “John Denver – Let This Be a
Voice”. What is important is that we all do our part for the
planet in whatever way we can – from the heart! Be it singing
the song, any song, writing, working for the environment, or helping
your friends and neighbours – from the heart! Check in next month for another Bite from “Sliced Bread”. |
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