Cosmic Radio

Where Does True Power Come From? A Musician's Reflection on Inner Wisdom

Is anyone out there?

Is there a cosmic radio station playing in the background of our minds? Delivering messages like frequencies, beamed into the receiver of our collective consciousness? And if we listen—tune in, pay attention—to what some call intuition, God, or a higher power, do we receive broadcasts of insight that spark curiosity, imagination, and creativity?

What if we lose the signal—do we get static and find ourselves searching for meaning and direction, alone in the world?

This morning, I was sitting peacefully on my back deck in the woods, enjoying my coffee, continuing to write—and then an alarm goes off.

BANG

BANG.

Gunshots.

It must be 9 a.m. The Indian Hill firing range—now open for business.

It was as if the power cable to the cosmic radio got yanked out of the wall. Like a lightning bolt, I was struck with a question: What is power, and where does it come from? Is it an inside job—or does it come through external forces?

I like to shoot guns. I have a dead aim.

But I don’t own one.

I monitor the full spectrum of the news. I find it both fascinating and disturbing. It stresses me out—makes me want bad food—but more than anything, it becomes deafening static.

Our world is shifting.

Barreling toward the edge of a cliff.

Most days, I feel like I’m strapped into a seat on a bus. Sober now for 16 years—and even when I was drinking, I never would have gotten on board.

So I read, pray, reflect, write, laugh, and sometimes cry. It’s like a really bad movie with stale popcorn—and the doors of the theater are locked.

Where does true power lie? Where do we find truth?

I believe it’s an inside job. But that’s no small task.

My dad used to remind me that he lived through the big war. They had blackout drills at night. This was before satellites and modern detection systems. He walked two miles to church in the snow. He lived through the Great Depression and food rations.

Some of my earliest memories as a child are of the evening news—hearing the daily body counts from the Vietnam War.

I remember asking why.

I remember our church being burned to the ground. We were the first to integrate.

Again, I remember asking why.

No one ever had an answer.

Memory as signal

I remember hippies and Jesus Freaks, and going to Ichthus—one of the first Christian rock festivals. Just like Woodstock, it was pouring rain. And instead of Jimi Hendrix, I stood in line to get an autograph from Andraé Crouch. I still have that autograph in my scrapbook. I remember standing at the side of the stage, Andraé asking my name as he signed it. I looked out at the big stage—the drum kit, the amplifiers, the keyboards, the big PA—then back over my shoulder at the field, where people sat under umbrellas and tarps, trying to stay dry. It takes a lot to sit in the pouring rain for music. I felt the power of that moment, and I remember wanting to be on that stage, providing that experience for an audience. Music, at its best, is reciprocal. The audience is just as important as the performer—but for me, it’s always been the message that matters most.

I’m not talking about the kind of power we take for granted—the kind that turns on the lights or makes daily life easy to navigate. I’m talking about true power. The kind that sparks imagination, allows us to dream, and feeds hope. It’s an inside job. It’s where we seek inspiration, explore creativity, and ask the big questions—what is the meaning of life? Why are we here? And the biggest question of all: do we believe in God?

As an artist, I found my power through writing, music, and the relationships I cultivated with people in the world around me. These things were woven into my daily life. I was never afraid to explore, take risks, and follow my dreams. I was on a mission to answer the question—why. As a child, I chased that answer through play and imagination. As a teenager, through exploration and rebellion. As an adult, through contemplation and hard-won calculation. What looked like a scavenger hunt eventually became a life’s work. Playing on the front lawn of my high school led to an actual stage. I didn’t have a road map—I only had intuition. I found out the hard way that trusting my gut could get me in trouble. But that instinct played in the back of my mind, separate from my conscious thoughts. It became a trusted source.

A cosmic radio.

I remember the day I quit drinking. I realized alcohol made it impossible to find a station—to hold a signal, to navigate a path. Living on the road, we followed the GPS, updated the software, navigated from gig to gig. As an artist, I realized my dreams were the cosmic address. In church, people called it a calling. As an artist, I called it my dreams. My dreams fed the address for my internal GPS—my trusted source, playing in the background.

Like a cosmic radio.

But then comes reality. The GPS in the van didn’t care about a snowstorm, a hurricane, or a canceled gig. All those things that happen in life while you’re busy making other plans.

I watched the world change. I learned I’m not uniquely special. As an artist, there is no determined career path, no HR department, no 401(k). There are choices you make early on, and that fork in the road leads you down a path far from the one going the other way. There’s never any real guarantee in life—but if you’re placing a bet, some bets come with greater risk. In our world today, what once held so much power has shifted. Everything’s for sale. Everything has a price tag. But at the end of the day—what’s real?

Eight vultures and the news

Yet another morning. I’m on my screened-in deck, laptop open, coffee cup that needs refilling. The gunshots haven’t started yet, but I notice eight vultures circling above the trees.

Something’s dead down there.

I left my phone inside to avoid the temptation of the news. My relationships with friends and strangers are built on conversation. I have an insatiable hunger to understand why. I want to know who people are, where they came from, who they vote for, whether they believe in God. It’s not about judgment—it’s about curiosity. I want to know why.

People either don’t like church or it’s the center of their world. People either obsess about politics, or they don’t know who or what to believe—and feel like it doesn’t matter anyway. I never heard the phrase “fake news” growing up. There were three channels. We all had skin in the game. I could see what politicians were doing, and I didn’t like it. But I never felt powerless. I was skilled at finding answers—like a longshoreman heading out to sea, the weather always mattered.

True power

So where does true power lie? Where do we find truth? What’s happened to a cohesive narrative? Where has our humanity gone?

Is it an inside job—or an outside job? Is there a cosmic radio, or must we just follow the news? When I drive a car, my eyes are open and I look through the windshield. That’s not the moment I choose to close my eyes and just believe. When I go for a walk, I check the weather. I was raised around a dinner table that focused on the events of the day. I understood that politics and democracy went hand in hand, whether I liked it or not. I learned that money couldn’t buy happiness—and that it was also a necessity. That the love of money never led anywhere good. I respected the military. I questioned authority. And war, I came to understand, was most often waged by the greatest fools of the day.

Looking through the windshield matters. So does discernment when it comes to the news. We’re all in this together. True art doesn’t come from Amazon. And where there is hate and division, there is no God.

Two cardinals

There are two cardinals that fly through the trees outside my window, each and every day.

They don’t look like vultures. And they’re not circling for prey.

It’s time to take a break, get a cup of coffee—yes, pray—and get on with the day. My best-laid plan of posting an essay each month on Substack was interrupted. My mother is in hospice. She fell last week. She spent four days in the hospital. With every minute, I am reminded of how precious life is. As I sit by her bedside, I’m reminded of dinner at six, church on Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday. I hear my father’s voice telling me to turn my guitar down—and my mother reminding me that I’m okay. I remember the conversations, the sermons, the days of endless practice. Each one prepared me for this day.

It’s time to wake up. Find our humanity. Don’t fall for news that, like a predator, sows seeds of division. Reach out to a friend you would miss if you found out they were gone. Look for cardinals, wildflowers—listen to music. But don’t check out. Don’t close your eyes. Open your heart. We’re in this together, whether we like it or not. Let’s open our eyes as we look through the windshield together. Let’s pull this bus over, chart a new path.

The edge of the cliff is not far away.

And when you find static—get quiet. Listen. There is a cosmic radio. A trusted source. Things that money can’t buy. Gifts that we all have to give.

Enough is all we need.

Thank you for reading.

Bye for now,
k

You can also follow my weekly Creative Journey reflections on my website, where I share the images and stories unfolding each week.