Susanna
I'm Only Passing Through


In my book, this is the quintessential rendition. Here is the classic tale of the lonely traveler; reminded of the muse acting as the compass, pointing in all directions, bound in unconditional love. She is limitless in her freedom, but not without boundaries.

I can't remember when I started rewriting this classic folk traditional. Somewhere in the back of my brain, there's a memory of sitting in our little shanty in Hamakua watching the rain fall and humming it. Sometimes that's how songs start. Watching nature, drifting into memories of loss or love or loss of love and then my hands start strumming. Before you know it, there's an idea being birthed.

For some of us, the road becomes our lover. She is always with you, never questions, but provides plenty of struggle and chaos to overcome. When one drifts, especially as much as I did at that age, you begin to wonder if you'll always be the wind. You wonder if you'll land and become attached, only to get caught in another swell and float away. It becomes a task to live unattached, but attached to being attached. It's an adventure to live in the unknown like that each day, with only your memories of the muse that you left behind. To sleep under the stars and wonder if you'll ever find it again. It's a strange thing, belonging to the desolate. An odd kinship to the vagabond, barely surviving parts of creation. I remember wanting to know what it was like to live unseen amongst the rats, yet knowing I didn't have a choice either. The matrix was so complex, and I was yet to discover the tools to play the game and stay under the radar. But, love, or our search for it, is a powerful ally and a sword worth wielding when you've got nothing to lose and everything to discover.

At a juncture I would soon come to know all too well. I had to make a choice: the road or the woman. More often than not, I chose the road. My lover became my moment. My moment became my way. Until, well… that's another story for another time.