For a long time, I thought of myself primarily as a musician. Looking back now, I think I was actually pursuing something larger: the possibility that sound could change the way we experience being alive.
That realization takes me back to around 1995. I was having some health issues involving my heart and found that I couldn’t relax. I began practicing relaxation meditation and deep breathing simply as a way to calm myself. Music soon became part of that practice. When I listened while breathing deeply, the music gave my mind something to rest upon—a kind of mandala for attention. I discovered that listening could help change my state of mind.
I didn’t have a name for what I was discovering.
Over time, this led me toward meditation, deep listening, and eventually what I came to think of as sonic meditation. Only much later did I discover that Pauline Oliveros had used the term Sonic Meditations for a body of work in the early 1970s. That coincidence has always fascinated me, particularly because I had arrived at many related ideas independently.
By 2003, I was trying to understand where all of this was leading me. I wrote a lengthy piece called Life Music Defined and Explained, an attempt to articulate my evolving philosophy of sound and listening.
I was interested in the possibility of listening more closely to the world around us and experiencing all of its sounds as part of a larger musical experience.
My thinking drew from several places: ambient music, Brian Eno, John Cage, Vipassana Buddhism, and eventually Pauline Oliveros and her concept of deep listening. But the important thing is that these weren’t simply ideas I had adopted. My experience with music and meditation had led me toward the questions first, and the intellectual framework came afterward.
In that 2003 writing, I described the project itself as becoming “a great big vipassana meditation.”
What interests me now is how clearly that experience anticipated much of what I’ve continued exploring ever since.
I began to see music less as an object and more as a way of directing attention.
A recording could create an atmosphere. A performance could create a space for listening. A sustained sound could give the mind somewhere to rest. But ultimately, the most interesting thing wasn’t the sound itself. It was what happened inside the experience of listening.
That distinction has become increasingly important to me.
It also helps explain why the work of the 1970s Human Potential Movement and related consciousness-oriented communities has always resonated with me. I was born after that cultural moment had largely passed. I didn’t consciously inherit that worldview, but for some reason it was often present in my thoughts and perspectives.
I had arrived at some of the same territory through music.
Experimental musicians were questioning what could be considered music. Ambient composers were exploring music as environment. John Cage challenged our assumptions about silence and surrounding sound. Pauline Oliveros developed deep listening as a practice. Meditation traditions explored attention and direct experience. The Human Potential Movement explored consciousness and transformation.
Somewhere in that larger constellation, I found my own way of asking the question.
For me, the question increasingly became: Can sound become a doorway into presence?
Can music help us become quieter?
Can listening interrupt our habitual relationship with the world?
Can a sound become something we don’t merely hear, but something through which we experience ourselves and our surroundings differently?
And perhaps most importantly, can music serve as a portal rather than a destination?
I think that’s what I’ve been circling for a very long time.
The Ambient Soundbath Podcast was one expression of it. Longform recordings have been another. Performance, improvisation, writing, and the broader body of work I’ve been developing have all been different ways of approaching the same territory.
The music matters. I love making it. But I increasingly understand it as a means of invitation.
An invitation to slow down.
To listen.
To become present.
To notice the extraordinary fact that sound is happening all around us, all the time.
And perhaps, through that attention, to experience something larger than the music itself.
When I look back now, I don’t see a series of disconnected musical experiments. I see a thread that reaches back at least to the mid-1990s, when I first discovered that music could help me become still.
I see it in the writing I did in 2003.
I see it in my fascination with ambient music, deep listening, meditation, and consciousness.
And I see it continuing into the work I’m doing now.
What kind of experience do I want to invite people into?
The answer has been there for a long time.
Listen deeply.
Be here.
And see what happens.
