Finding Community in Bluegrass Music

My journey as a musician and artist- my longing for connection, struggles with self-doubt, and the rediscovery of my passion.

I first heard live country blues deep in the woods of New York, where I lived with my boyfriend at the time—before I became a Christian. He was my photography instructor and the son of the late James Agee. We stayed in his father’s old, crumbling farmhouse, a place where artists wandered in and out as they pleased—a constant source of tension.

What mesmerized me most was the way these musicians connected. They would sit together and play, hardly speaking a word, yet communicating profoundly through their instruments. Though their lives, struggles, and beliefs were vastly different, when they played, it was as if they had known each other for a thousand years. I longed to be part of that unspoken bond but didn’t know how to step into it.

So, I started where I could. I picked up his guitar, sat on rusted chairs on the rotting porch, and practiced the chords he taught me. I learned the songs they played, and through them, I found a doorway into my own heart. I immersed myself in the sounds of Mississippi John Hurt, Ma Rainey, Bessie Smith, and Taj Mahal. But as I grew into the music, the space between us grew as well—until, eventually, we drifted apart.

Still, I was drawn to creating music, though I fell into the trap of believing that I was only an artist if I was famous. I became disconnected from the sense of community and connection that had first captivated me. I judged myself by how others responded to my music, letting self-doubt take root. There were moments—rare and fleeting—when playing with my blues band allowed me to tap into that sacred space of deep musical conversation. But instead of nurturing my craft, I sought validation elsewhere. I practiced less, partied more, and convinced myself that talent should come effortlessly.

Yet, the desire to create never left me. It nagged at me like a yipping dog, a dripping faucet carving a wound in my heart. Life took me on twists and turns—raising children, teaching music, a counseling career, losses, celebrations—but through it all, the longing remained. I yearned to write, to sing, to play, to experience that transcendent bond with other musicians once more.

One day, I decided to stop ignoring my heart. I would write songs—if only to silence that insistent voice within. And as often happens when we take a leap of faith, I was met with a sign of encouragement. While visiting my mom in Virginia, we attended a bluegrass concert. Despite the cold, windy, and rainy day, people gathered beneath an outdoor pavilion, eating clams, dancing, and singing along. What struck me most was the musicians themselves—unpretentious, clad in worn-out jeans and flip-flops, playing not to impress but to connect. They were incredibly skilled, yet their joy was rooted in the shared experience of music.

In that moment, I saw the truth I had always believed—music is a gift of connection. If these musicians could embrace their artistry without the need for approval, so could I. Soon after, my dad called out of the blue and encouraged me to attend Donna Ulisse’s writer’s camp. There, I found a community of bluegrass songwriters who, like me, longed to express their truths through music. That experience reignited my passion and reminded me why I started in the first place.

Now, I walk this path again—not chasing fame but embracing the creative spaces where truth and connection are found. I am and have always been an artist.