Nothing Like We Imagined

Sometimes Things Are Nothing Like We Imagined

How a foggy arrival, a worn piano, and a room full of strangers reminded me what really matters.

The Search for a Perfect Day

I’ve always carried a deep desire to find the perfect day. Sometimes I’m lucky enough to create one. Other times, my expectations are low enough that some days feel perfect. And as I get older, I’ve realized that just being healthy—when nothing hurts too much—is already a pretty good day.

I also hold a longing: To find where I’m really meant to be:
Where I can be of service.
Surrounded by people I resonate with—and who resonate with me. 

A place to call home.

Maybe this longing stems from reading Brave New World as a teenager and the lingering fear that book provoked. That as the world edges closer to something meaner and disconnected to truth, I long to be with my people. I’ve gotten glimpses of these people all over the world, but rarely all in one place.

An Unexpected Invitation

This past summer, I taught a workshop in Belgium and connected with a student who splits her time between countries. She invited my husband and me to stop by her intentional community in Denmark on our way south in our camper van. I didn’t know what to expect—only that I was booked to lead a workshop: part vocal movement, part concert/jam. I’d bring my guitar, ukulele, or sit at the piano. My husband would join on the flute. With improvised singing in between, we’d see what emerged.

Arrival Into Grey

We left Oslo under brilliant blue skies and drove through scenic Sweden into the night.

The next day, we reached the island of Sjælland, where Copenhagen is located. The community was a few hours south. We arrived just before lunch on a foggy, drizzly day. I’m deeply affected by weather. Had we arrived to sunshine, I might have felt hopeful. But the grey and cold felt heavy.

My student gave us a warm welcome with open arms and a simple organic lunch. Afterwards, she left to teach, and my husband and I ventured out into the grey and windy landscape for a walk. Later, we found our way to the auditorium, where a beautiful piano waited. As daylight faded, we played—me on piano, him on flute. That was the first surprise: how good it felt to play. As musicians, we are often seeking two things: an empty space where you don’t disturb a soul or a room full of people who want to listen. We’d be given both. But we didn’t know the later part yet.

Unexpected Healing

As dusk fell, we were invited to a birthday celebration—cake and company, mostly students from Japan, all surprisingly fluent in English. 

Dinner wouldn’t be ready for another hour, so my student and I found a quiet room. I gave her an Alexander Technique session—something I deeply love doing. She has scoliosis and shoulder pain and as I worked with her, she sighed with relief. It felt grounding for me, too. Travel brings uncertainty, and my imagination can spiral toward the negative. But during that session, something shifted in me.

She told me she was studying coaching work and asked if I’d like to experience it. We agreed to exchange sessions the next morning.

The Evening’s Event

I tend to get nervous before I lead an activity or perform. I set my expectations (too?) high. But I’ve been working on showing up with less attachment—just being present.

We didn’t know if anyone would come.
I set up my laptop and phone, tested the speakers, and waited. To my surprise, almost everyone in the community showed up—open, curious, ready to move.

I didn’t say much. Just offered a simple structure: move how you want, sound if you feel like it, follow the music. I played songs from around the world—ones people wouldn’t know. So there were no expectations, no pre-written roles, just the invitation to be. At first, they were shy. But slowly, the music drew them in. They danced. They laughed. They made sounds. They came alive.

Leprechauns, Drums, and That Wobbly Piano

The plan was to merge into a concert. I thought I was too tired, but my student encouraged me. She gathered everyone around the piano.

Except… this piano was wildly out of tune. Too far our for my husband to adjust his flute.
Meanwhile, a few students—clearly beginners—grabbed drums: cajóns, bongos, djembes. Adapting, I gave them a simple rhythm. My husband stayed in a key based on what I had played earlier. The jam began.

And as always:
Once something has begun, it’s easier to keep going. Momentum carries you. Eventually, I brought out my guitar and joined in, keeping the percussion alive while strumming and singing.

So much of my life has been spent chasing approval. Wanting to be recognized, to be seen, to be famous, maybe. But something happened in that room. I was in it. So were they.

An hour passed and we went on. Played, improvised, shifted rhythms and laughed. At one point, my student asked me to sing a song of mine that she loved. Usually, I get nervous. But that night, it came easily. The room hushed and I sang. And for once, it was enough. More than enough.
It was enough. The room was electric, the look on their faces, my whole body tingled with life. Suddenly there in that moment, I’d found home, community and the perfect place.

Later, curled up in our camper, my student messaged:
“Thank you. Everyone more than loved your offering.”

The Next Day

My student and I met to do our exchange. She looked at me and said: “Don’t underestimate the power of small events.” She told me how the students had been moved. How something might’ve opened in them that had never opened before. And how that—like planting a seed—is more meaningful than being adored by millions of people I’ll never meet.

Closing Thoughts

I don’t know if I found my perfect place. But for one night, in a foggy corner of Denmark, I found my people. Enough to remember that:
We don’t always need to be somewhere grand.
We don’t need to be known by everyone.
Sometimes, the magic is in the small things.
The unexpected invitations.
The wobbly piano.
The laughter of strangers.
And the song that—for once—felt like enough.