To me, sitting at an instrument to compose music is like sitting on the beach, running my fingers through the sand. My fingers hit upon something solid, and I start to dig the sand away from around the object. I follow it’s shape in whatever direction it dictates. Maybe it turns out to be just a rock buried under the sand and I toss it aside, or maybe it feels like something of significance. Every once in a while, it turns out that I happened upon a beautiful statue, a treasure that was buried in the sand. It’s not like I created the object—I simply uncovered it.

Music is a magical substance. Where does it come from? Seemingly from out of nowhere—yet it moves us deeply, incites us to laugh, cry, dance, or be still. It reflects the miracle that is all around us all the time. But there is no miracle bigger than the human being, because we’re the ones who can perceive and experience the miraculous.

Working with music is a great opportunity for me to be a part of bringing something meaningful and heartfelt into this world. When I compose music and in my music therapy practice, I’m always trying to come from my heart because I’ve see and experience the powerful impact music can have. When I compose a piece of music that’s going to go onto a CD, the question that’s most important to me is: “How does this music make me feel?” I know that if it moves me, it is likely to move someone else as well. I want to feel inspired, I want to be reminded of something beautiful. How the music makes me feel isn’t something that can necessarily be put it into words, but that’s part of the beauty of it.