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Program Note:
I picture someone named Fernne (pronounced “fern”), up to their knees in water. Fernne was the name of my maternal grandmother who passed away in 2001. I was just getting to know her at that point, really.
Everywhere my family has ever lived is near a coastline. In this piece, I hear so many acts of nature happening at once. Tides rolling in the woodwinds, fires spreading in the strings, gusts of wind in the harp. I wrote this piece beside the daily news of Australia’s wildfires, as we entered the new decade. I worry about the places I’ve lived, and what they’ll look like after the next decade, being so close to the coast.
All of these unfamiliar and unknown things: the impending climate, a grandmother from which I feel so distant. This piece lives in those mental proximities. An image of someone I barely know, up to their knees in water, in a climate they never knew.