Week Two of My Creative Journey
This week is part of my ongoing creative journey journal, where music, memory, and purpose intersect.
Seeing the Unseen: January 8, 2026
I see my reflection.
Does it see me?
As I watch the events unfolding in our world, I notice how some people seem invisible, how some stories go untold, some truths hidden. I was raised in a family, a church, and a community where invisibility was not tolerated, ignored, or justified.
As a teenager, I questioned authority. As a young adult, I lived outside the box. As someone lucky enough—blessed enough—to cross the Rubicon of midlife, I reflect.
As an artist—and I believe we are all artists—honesty is unavoidable. As human beings, we have far more in common than we sometimes realize. As a person of faith, I carry responsibility. Purpose is not complicated. For years, I mistook my talent for my purpose. Our talent is what we do. Our purpose is why we do it.
Fast Cars, Old Memories, and Slowing Down: January 9, 2026
Hot Wheels. Led boots.
Fast cars. Traffic school.
As I work my way through boxes from my childhood, I sort what I want to keep and what I want to store. I open the secretary desk that once belonged to my grandmother’s house in Burlington, KY, next to a chair with a desktop and a telephone attached. My dad and I refinished this secretary together.
Today, as I open the desk and search through its drawers, it feels like a time vault. The desk has moved to every place my parents lived, but it hasn’t been used since the early ’80s. Inside are copies of insurance policies, old wills, bank registers, letters written to my mother from friends and family, a soup can with my name written in crayon on construction paper, and a handful of Hot Wheels.
I helped my dad build a racetrack when I was three or four. He said it was for me, but I knew it was for him, too. My dad had a Plymouth Fury. He’d let me shift gears as he flew down the highway, with my mom yelling, “Joe! Slow down!” I got my first speeding ticket on my driver’s permit, with both my mom and dad in the car, on the way home from church.
As a touring musician, I often felt more like a truck driver than a guitarist. I’ve driven over a million miles and collected more than ninety speeding tickets. I often feel lucky to have made it this far.
Today, I buy handpans instead of fast cars. I drink good coffee instead of martinis– and enjoy long walks instead of highways.
Link to song: Fast Drivin’ Mama
The Guitar as Identity and Practice: January 10, 2026
The guitar is an extension of my soul.
As the finish wears, the bond grows deeper.
The guitar was my identity before I knew who I was. It was my best friend, my shield, my armor, my muse. It never once lied to me, let me down, or stroked my ego.
As a professional guitarist and teacher, I never needed a Post-it note to remind me to tune my guitar before I played. This serves as a reminder—to take quiet time in the morning, to tune my life before I live it.
My Studio – Playground and Creative Space: January 11, 2026
My studio. My playground.
Where I teach, record, and create.
It’s where I call home.
I’m an only child. It feels natural to be in my own space, my own world, creating what has been distilled inside me.
I’m an introvert. I’m a writer. I’m an explorer of anything that fascinates me—from piano to drums, from guitar to handpan, from Native American flute to singing bowls. Everything has its place and its time.
Posters, Early Music, and Finding Hendrix: January 12, 2026
This poster came into my life when I was eight.
It was left behind in the basement of the house we bought after my grandmother died—waiting.
Growing up Southern Baptist, I knew more about Black gospel music than rock ’n’ roll. I loved The Osmonds, The Carpenters, Barry Manilow, Top 40. I lived at the skating rink. I swear, if I ever hit the lottery, it’s the first thing I’d buy.
My grandmother died when I was eight—the single most traumatic experience of my childhood. We quickly sold our house and my grandparents’ house so we could care for my granddad until he passed, of a broken heart, just six months later.
I remember walking into our new house, disoriented and lost. In the basement, I saw a fuzzy black-light poster of a strange guy holding a guitar, with the words, “I’ll see you in the next world—don’t be late.” I had no idea what it meant, but I begged my parents to take me to Spencer’s in the Turfland Mall so I could buy a black light. That poster has glowed and traveled with me throughout my journey.
I grew up playing piano. My next-door neighbor had a set of drums, and I banged on them until his wife made him give them to me. After one summer with drums in my bedroom, my dad said, “Kelly Joe, if you get rid of those drums, I’ll buy you anything you want.” I said, “I want a guitar.”
My dad worked at Sears. On Christmas Eve, when I was fifteen, I got a Les Paul copy and a three-watt amp. That amp bounced across the floor with every power chord I learned. At my first guitar lesson, my teacher gave me “Little Brown Jug” and “Hey Joe.”
My friend Tracy Parkey asked what songs I was learning. When I said, “Hey Joe,” her eyes lit up. I was unimpressed—I had no idea those five chords to a song I’d never heard would change my life. She said, “That’s Jimi Hendrix!” I said, “Who?” She looked at me dumbfounded and asked, “You don’t know who Jimi Hendrix is?” I said, “No idea.”
That afternoon, we went straight to her house, and she put on Jimi Hendrix – the Gods Made Love. My life was never the same.
January 13, 2026: Discovering Handpans and Renewed Creativity
Creativity transcends the boundaries of our imagination.
No one has to stay the same.
My dearest friend Tami got tickets to see a handpan player for my birthday—November 30, 2019. Two days before my birthday, on Thanksgiving, while driving to Lexington, I got a call from my dad: “You better meet us at the hospital—your mom just fell.”
At the ER, I learned she had broken her ankle in three places. It was the first time I wondered if my mom would make it. I was depressed. The last thing I wanted was music. I just wanted to be alone. But Tami looked disappointed, so I said okay—then asked, “Can we sit in the back in case I don’t like it?” She quietly said yes.
The moment I walked in, I saw spaceship-looking instruments glowing onstage. I said, “Wow,” and made my way to a seat—front and center. I was mesmerized. I had never seen anything like it. It reminded me of a piano and a drum kit—no amplifier, no band, no earplugs—just a vessel sending mystical sounds throughout the room.
As the artist, Matt Venuti, packed up, I asked if I could help load his gear in exchange for playing one. I told him I was a professional musician and promised I wouldn’t hurt it. He smiled, handed me a PanArt Hang, and told me to sit down.
I fell in love. After decades of touring, I was burned out and tired. This instrument renewed my love for music and became the best therapist I ever had. Over the last six years, I’ve played more than 200 shows each year—for yoga classes, retreats, the Cincinnati Arts Association, hospice, UC Med Center, and a weekly chair yoga broadcast for veterans at the VA.
Today, I have a complete collection of handpans, Native American flutes, singing bowls, Tibetan bowls, percussion instruments, a concert gong, and wind chimes. I still play guitar with the same energy and love teaching it. I’m also thrilled to offer handpan discovery sessions—introducing people to an instrument they’ve seen online but never felt in person, helping them decide if it’s right for them, and guiding them to the right place to begin.
Music is a gift—whether we’re listening or playing. Both roles matter equally.
Link to song: Let Me Be The Light
January 14, 2026: Letters, Memories, and Enlightenment Reflections
A folder marked: Letters, Memories, Enlightenment — If I die, destroy. Don’t read!
I was nineteen.
As I continue digging through boxes this week, I uncovered one I had overlooked. Inside was that folder—a time capsule. Letters from girlfriends, boyfriends, best friends, my mother. Photographs. Writings. Everything.
I was fascinated to revisit those memories and discover their point of origin. I was amazed at how vividly they had endured—and reminded of details I’d forgotten. I’m glad I kept everything. And I’m glad I wrote on the folder: If I die, destroy. Don’t read.
I wonder what will happen to these things when I die. I have no attachment or concern. We don’t live our lives in a vacuum—unseen.
Below is a link to a song from my record, Sweet Spirit.
Link to song: Dying
This wraps up week two. I’ve remained committed to my creative journey—one day at a time. I’ve captured a thumbnail, taken time to reflect, embraced exploration, and ended the week with laughter as I read letters and writings from my teenage years, reflecting on what I once believed to be enlightenment—a flashback to my youth, when I wanted to change the world. I honestly thought I could.
Maybe—just maybe—the most important thing I’ve learned this week is that we do all have the power to change the world, and it happens through our daily actions. It’s what we do. This experience reshaped my understanding of creativity, mindfulness, and my evolving artist life journey. Through this personal reflection blog, I’m learning that creativity isn’t about changing the world loudly—it’s about showing up daily.
Enlightenment—what a curious word.
Week three is on its way and coming soon. Bye for now…
k
Read About: A Musicians Creative Journey Week One
