It Started with Rainbows and Ended with Fireworks.

I met Shaun and "Mogger" at the IBMA conference in September of 2025. They walked up, excited to meet me, and exclaimed - in a wonderful Scouse accent - that I was the reason they were there.  Truthfully, I think they said something like "Yer the reason we're 'ere, la!" I immediately had them clarify that they had not made their journey from Liverpool on the off chance they might encounter me.  

That's when they explained that they had been learning to play banjo and using my instructional videos over the past few years and decided to make the trip.  We immediately hit it off, and it wasn’t long before the idea of having me over for a banjo workshop came up.  In just under a year's time it happened.  

Terry (Mogger), Me, Shaun at IBMA in 2025

I have to admit that I had some apprehension. It's not like this is a day trip.  It felt big, because it was. Shaun and I continued to hash out the details and excitement grew with each step of the process. 

Date: settled. Location: settled. Flight booked, accommodations arranged. The Liverpool workshop was in place!  

We began to advertise, and in a few days we had a respectable-sized class, and nearly two days’ worth of private lessons! 

The day of the trip arrived, right on the heels of a fantastic old-time banjo workshop in Indianapolis.  I got my laundry done and packed my bag for Liverpool. What’s the weather like there? Do I need a jacket? What about extra shoes?  Will I need nice clothes?  You know… all those decisions we make every time we pack.  It then occurred to me that Liverpool has anything I might forget and the stress of packing disappeared. 

Off to the airport!  I almost always fly out of Atlanta, so I made my way to the busiest airport (by passengers) in the world.  [I had to look that up; glad I did. I also learned ATL is #2 in the world for aircraft movements; Chicago O’Hare takes the number one spot.]  Traffic was exactly what you might expect, but I found parking and made my way through the gauntlet of check-in, bag drop, and security. 

Folks that travel through ATL regularly will tell you to arrive at the airport 3 hours early. That may seem excessive, especially if you’re used to smaller regional airports.  Do you really need the three hours?  Let’s just say, “when you do, you do.”  

There’s always a hangup somewhere, and you can count on the odds of that increasing if you’re toting a banjo as your carry-on.  Fortunately, everything went smoothly and I even had time to grab a snack before my red-eye flight to Manchester. 

Can you sleep on an airplane? I can’t. Could be the anticipation, or it could be that I’m a big guy and I don’t fit well in a regular economy seat. “Couldn’t you buy a seat with more space?” That’s “a-whole-nother ball of worms”, but remember, I’m a banjo player/teacher.  

Knees, meet seatback...

I arrived in Manchester at 7am local time, went through passport control, grabbed my bag and headed to arrivals where I spotted Mogger and Shaun waiting to collect me. 

The weather was damp with a light mist of rain. Both Shaun and Mogger apologized for the weather and assured me that the weather had been nice. Then, as we approached the Mersey Gateway Bridge there was a huge rainbow. I wish I could have taken a better picture of it, but we were all in awe. By the time it occurred to me to snap a photo it wasn’t as bright since our position had changed.  You’ll just have to take my word for it, and for the second one we saw right as we drove into Liverpool. 

You'll have to take my word for it; it was amazing.

We had planned that I would get to Liverpool a couple of days before the workshop.  That way Shaun and Mogger could take me to meet their local banjo teacher and to one of the pubs where there’s a new blossoming bluegrass jam. 

I grabbed a quick nap, and then took a short walk to get my bearings before Shaun and Mogger picked me up for the next adventure.  

With Mogger behind the wheel we headed to Wigan to meet Steve, their banjo teacher.  Steve turned out to be a great guy and a gifted teacher.  The four of us sat around for a while and just played tunes, told stories and enjoyed tea and scones.  When we left Steve’s wife made sure we each had a bag of scones to take with us.  

Steve and his Wife

Later we dropped Shaun off at his house and Mogger and I headed to the Red Lion where there was a jam. When I walked in I got big smiles from a couple of the younger players that recognized me from my YouTube channel.   What I wasn’t expecting was a saxophone player. 

Jam at the Red Lion in Liverpool

I didn’t play, as space was tight, but Mogger and I hung around to listen. When he stepped away for a moment I was instantly set upon by this tiny redheaded girl that wanted to know why an American was hanging around with a Scouser, if I knew the Amy Winehouse song Valerie, and if I could guess where she was from by her accent - along with  several other things, and before I could get a word in edgewise she declared that I wasn’t very talkative.  I’ve always had a gift of gab, but I must admit I was certainly outmatched by this tiny redhead from Belfast (I did manage to get that right). 

Mogger returned up about that point and we decided to call it a night.  

Red-eye flight, quick nap, short walk through city center, calm jam, rowdy pub… what a great first day in Liverpool. 

Friday was more relaxed.  Shaun and I did a little sightseeing and later that afternoon I met with David, another banjo lesson content creator. You’ll have to wait and see our collaboration!  In the meantime you can find him at www.YouTube.com/banjotemple - he’s doing great things there.  

David created a fun and tasty video!

Jet lag is real, folks!  I set an alarm. I promise! I woke up to my alarm that had been blaring away for a while. I barely enough time to get a shower and a quick bite before the workshop started. 

I made my way to the conference room where the workshop was, settled in and watched people steadily fill the room. Most were from the surrounding area, but some had come from Ireland, Scotland, and Wales!  

When you offer a workshop like this you wind up with players at all sorts of skill levels.  This one was no different. I do my best to share ideas and advice that can benefit beginners as well as more advanced players. Offering one-on-one lessons allowed me more flexibility too with the direction of the class. Half of the class signed up for a private lesson!  

The Classiest Class!

In the private lessons I could really get an idea of what each might need to work on and we focused on those things. There’s no magic to it, and no real secrets.  I just emphasized to each student that I was there for them. It was also a way for me to connect with folks beyond just a workshop setting. 

With Saturday’s workshop finished, I went to supper with Shaun, Mogger, and two new friends: Lee, who had made a banjo strap for me, and Kayne, a fantastic picker from somewhere near Knowsley. At Bella Italia, I found myself baffled by the hostess’s gloriously thick Scouse accent.

We finished supper and Shaun headed home. I spent the evening at a couple of pubs with Mogger, Kayne and Lee.  Midnight slipped up on me and I called it a night and walked the couple of blocks to my room.  The rest, I’m told, were out to nearly 3 a.m.  Some of us (me) had more lessons the next day.  

I filled Sunday with lessons and that evening Shaun, Mogger, and I found ourselves in another jam session at Kayne’s.  He manages a huge estate and I believe I’ve seen more pheasants on the driveway up to his house than I had ever seen in my life.   I met a couple of new folks there too. I have to say, that little jam at Kayne’s may be one of the highlights of this trip. It wasn’t necessarily for the music; it was good.  It was the camaraderie, stories, ribbing… everything that fills a heart with friendship.  I slept well that night. 

Monday morning I got up and visited the Liverpool Central Library.  The interior design ranged from large modern spaces to a huge multilevel circular reading room lined with dark wood that looked to be straight out of Hogwarts.  I could have spent the entire day there.  It was one of those places that will last in my memory - probably forever.  

The Picton Reading Room

That afternoon we met up with Richard, another content creator who had come over from Sheffield. We met at the Palm House in Sefton Park.  Once we found a shady spot outside the banjos came out and we entertained ourselves and a few other folks that sat with us to listen. 

Shaun, Mogger, Richard, Me

That evening, Shaun, Mogger, and  I headed to Rainford for the regular jam they attend.  I’m told that jam has been happening there for over thirty years.  Once we were all sufficiently fed, the instruments came out.  There were songs and tunes called at tempos for everyone.  All the new friends I had made up to that point were there.  There was also a young guitar player (James) whom I had met at that first visit to the Red Lion. He graced us all by calling a plethora of fun tunes and is full of enthusiasm.  

I woke up early on Tuesday.  Shaun and Mogger had big plans for me. We started off at the Royal Liver Building.  It was opened in 1911, and the clocks are bigger than Big Ben - a point a pride among the Liverpudlians.  We walked the 130 some steps up to the clock, and got a great view of the city.  

During the tour of the building we got to see the inside of the clocktower where we watched a brief, but immersive, animated film about the history of the area and of the Liver building. One scene still stays in my mind.  It's nighttime in the city.  I hear a low rumble.  Thunder?  No... It's a steady droning sound.  In the distance I see the small silhouette of a plane, then another, and another, and another.  There were too many for me to count.  Though I knew what was happening, I could only stand and watch as I heard explosions.  

I guess it never occurred to me that Liverpool endured the Blitz.  Sure, it makes sense with city being an important port. Even knowing that didn't prepare me for the feeling of watching those planes approach the city I had come to love over this past week.  I felt helpless.  I felt angry.  It made me cry. 

Yet, I also felt proud of "my" Liverpudlians.  They had endured it, and they rebuilt. The Liverpool that I had come to know and love stood as a testament to their courage and toughness. 

The Royal Liver Building is beautiful.  It's definitely a site you won't want to miss when you travel there.  

A view from the top - and of - of the Royal Liver Building 

If that was all we had done that day it would have been enough, but they had bigger plans; they had planned a Beatles tour of Liverpool just for me. I saw where they lived, hung out, played music…

I visited Strawberry Field, which was a children’s home operated by the Salvation Army.  I visited Penny Lane, a street in Liverpool, saw the “shelter in the middle of a roundabout”, and the barbershop. It’s a nice street. 

At Strawberry Field

We grabbed supper back at the hotel and I got to bed early.  As I was lying in bed I heard fireworks. I hopped up and looked out the window, and sure enough, there was an impromptu fireworks show. I have no idea who the fireworks were for, so I’ll pretend they were for me.  

Fireworks just for me!  :)

Shaun drove me to the airport this morning. Mogger tagged along. They both walked me all the way to check in, where we said our goodbyes. I hate that part. 

I felt happy there, and as I sit here writing this on my phone during the plane ride home I’m sad.  I’ll miss my friends there, sure, but that’s not only what makes me sad.  I felt lighter there. I felt like myself.  I’m not sure I can put it into words - at least not yet.  

My Own Ted Lasso

There are very few people in this world I ever considered a mentor, and last night I lost my friend and mentor Tom Black.

Mark, Tom Black, Me circa 1980

He was one of my agriculture teachers, but we stayed in touch over the years. We didn’t see eye-to-eye on everything later in life, but he was good to me, invested in me, and taught me a lot. What little self-esteem I have, I learned from him. In every imaginable way, he was a safe place.

When my high school job got cut, he immediately offered me my own landscaping crew, hoping I’d take it and start my own business. I went back to grad school instead… but I still wonder sometimes how life would’ve been different.

Tom believed in me, and he believed in my music. He was always a fan, always glad to hear me play and sing. I don’t even know if it was ever truly his kind of music, but it didn’t matter. He never made it about his taste. He made it about believing in me… and about me learning to believe in myself.

I always wanted to make Tom proud of me. I hope I did. I think I did — not because I became some big success, but because I kept becoming more fully myself.

In some ways, he was my own Ted Lasso.

When Music Is Answered With Poetry

I've been posting music online for a long time. Long enough to recognize the usual shapes of response.

In the U.S., comments tend to sound familiar:
Great tone.
Nice playing.
Thanks for the lesson.
Occasionally a technical question is asked. Sometimes people joke. Often, various emojis get left.

I value all of it. I don't say that lightly.

Over the past year, as I've been sharing music on a Chinese platform (小红书), I've noticed something different.

People don't just respond.

They reflect.

One listener wrote that my playing was "as gentle as a lover," and my singing "as calm as moonlight." Another said they listened on their walk home from work and felt their mood settle almost immediately.

One person wrote at length about how a song reminded them of sitting on their father's shoulders as a child — their father like a mountain — and how, slowly, they grew into becoming someone else's mountain, until they understood that adulthood sometimes means walking alone and facing everything yourself. (That reflection hit me right in the feelings.)

Translation (from Chinese): This playing is wonderful. It made me think of sitting on my father’s shoulders when I was little. Back then, my father felt like a mountain. I was small, always used to hiding behind him. Slowly, slowly, I grew bigger, and I became someone else’s mountain. Then I suddenly understood that being a man sometimes means that at certain moments, you can only walk forward alone and face everything yourself.

Those sorts of comments aren't just feedback.

They represent memory, responsibility, and tenderness — and they're offered without apology.

I sat with that for a while.

⸻

Two Ways of Listening

I don't think this difference comes down to taste or temperament.

It has more to do with what people are taught to do when they're moved.

American responses often translate feeling into evaluation. Approval stands in for articulation. This was good becomes the container for everything the listener felt but didn't quite name.

In the Chinese comments, the feeling isn't summarized — it's rendered. Moonlight instead of calm. Mountains instead of strength. Even just the feeling of walking home has depth that I just can't put into words.

One way asks whether something worked. The other answers the question: What did this touch?

Neither is wrong. They do, however, lead to very different kinds of speech.

⸻

Permission Matters

I don't believe American (or Western) listeners feel less.

I think they're simply less often invited to linger.

In much of Western online culture, emotional language is expected to be concise, efficient, or lightly buffered. Earnestness can feel exposed. Tenderness often needs a reason.

What I see in these Chinese responses is a comfort with indirect expression. Feeling is allowed to arrive through metaphor and analogy rather than explanation. The language gives people a way to say things that might otherwise remain unspoken.

A comment about music becomes a reflection on memory, emotional weight, solitude, or care.

That kind of response doesn't emerge from enthusiasm alone. It requires a culture that knows how to hold it.

⸻

The Role I Didn't Know I Was Playing

There's another factor I didn't anticipate.

In the U.S., I'm usually received as a teacher or an expert. Those roles shape the exchange. People thank you. They ask questions. They keep a certain distance.

On the Chinese platform, listeners seem to place me in a different category — something closer to an elder musician, or simply a calm presence passing through their day.

That shift changes the conversation.

Instead of asking how something was played, people tell me where it took them.

I didn't set out to occupy that role. It emerged because the environment allowed it — and because people felt free to answer sound with story.

⸻

What This Changed for Me

Reading these responses hasn't made me want different praise.

No, what it did was change how I listen.

I've found myself paying more attention to what my playing expresses rather than what it demonstrates. I'm trying to be more aware of silence, pacing, and restraint. I'm finding myself more interested in whether it gives the listener space to feel something unspoken.

I'm thinking less about whether a performance lands cleanly, and more about whether it allows someone to remember something they may have hidden in their memory.

⸻

A Quiet Gratitude

I don't expect American audiences to suddenly start responding to music in metaphor. Cultures don't shift on command.

I'm grateful, though, that these listeners have shown me what art can sound like when people are allowed to respond without compressing the experience into approval.

Moonlight.

Mountains.

Walking home.

Those images have stayed with me.

They've changed how I hear.

What I learned about myself through a relationship

Where, What, and Who I Am

What I learned about myself through a relationship that mattered

It was more than just a passing affair. It was important. Sure, all relationships carry an aspect of importance, but this one… this one was different. It forced me to reflect on many aspects of myself over the past few months. The challenges we faced helped me to see where, what, and who I am. Hopefully I can explain all of that in a way that'll make sense. I hope you'll stick around while I try.

---

Where am I?

I've asked that question before, but it usually involved a roadmap. This time, there wasn't one. Instead, I was exploring parts of myself - much of it a wide expanse that, despite having lived for decades and being in charge of my own adventure, I had never truly explored.

I discovered I am not good with ambiguity if it goes on for a bit. I mean, let's face it, this section is asking the question "Where am I?" You've been on those roads that just seemed to go on forever - where the signs are few and you begin to doubt that you're even on the right one. That's how it feels for me when there's uncertainty about a relationship. Sure, I can manage for a little while, but I need a sign every now and then for some reassurance.

I've also learned that emotional stability is important to me. Oh, I can be flexible, but I certainly prefer stability. I need something I can point at, and count on. And with a relationship? Oh, I just can't stay in the grey areas just to hang onto a connection.

What am I?

I'm a banjo player not a "p-sy-chologist". Seriously though, this may be more about how I'm made - wired up, if you will. After unboxing myself and scrutinizing the contents I find that I'm a lover that bonds through presence, consistency, and intimacy. I also found that when intimacy is real to me it carries very deep meaning. I prioritize the other person, and I feel that there's a responsibility that we should have for one another. Some of that I like, and maybe you see something there of value.

I also learned that intimacy creates attachment for me, and attachment without clarity has the proclivity to bring up jealousy. Sure, I'll take ownership of my jealousy. It's a trait I've been trying to understand for a while, and I'm finally starting to see where it comes from. It's that time when closeness is real but the relationship isn't clear, jealousy shows up for me.

Who am I?

This is a tough one. In this context I guess we'll have to just look at who I am when it comes to a relationship; the entire "who" is immense.

I've only recently learned that when I care about someone and things begin to feel unstable, I tend to over-function. I've noticed that I will soften my language, carry extra emotional weight that isn't mine to carry, and try to absorb someone else's discomfort — and sometimes all of that at the cost of my own clarity. I didn't realize I was doing those things, and it took a good deal of self-reflection to finally make sense of it.

Oh, another thing is I've too often confused patience with growth. I didn't like seeing that or the over-functioning in myself, but I needed to see them. Just like I tell my students, being aware of the problem is where we start making the change.

---

The affair did end as many do, but not because either of us was wrong. It ended because we each had different needs, a different sense of pacing, and definitions that didn't line up. I figure we both needed to be true to ourselves. I can honestly say, despite my desire to fast forward to some version of "happily ever after", it ended before I made too many changes and lost myself.

Yes, maybe I've also begun to learn the difference between growth and self-erasure. Obviously I should work on how I react, and learn how to regulate my emotions better. Looking back over the past few months I've found that I can express my wants and needs a little better than I could previously. I've got a better idea of the sort of relationship in which I can thrive -- and that might be the most important thing I've discovered so far on this adventure.

This relationship taught me a lot. Oh sure, most of what I learned was about myself, but I certainly got a lot of new perspectives from my lover. I'm not bitter about any of it. It's as if this affair held up a mirror to me and let me take a good long look. Only because of it I have a better idea of my edges and my limits. I also got to see the places where I need to stand strong and not bend. I needed that!

I'm not leaving this affair feeling smaller - not at all. If anything, I'm leaving it feeling more defined!

The Unaimed Arrow

"Goals are deceptive. The unaimed arrow never misses."

I saw this quote recently and it sparked something in me. I'm not sure how I feel about it. On one hand I can totally relate. It's pretty much how I learned to play. I worked on the tiny bits and pieces that I had learned without much regard to structure or any future goals. I practiced/played in the moment. I did the things I could do. I did the things I enjoyed. By doing that I found myself practicing more, but I never considered it practice.

Let's face it; practice isn't fun. Oh, it could be, maybe, but really? Nope, I'd rather just do fun things. Playing the banjo is fun! I want to do that - a lot. Learning is fun.

On the other hand part of me wants to be all responsible and grown up and tell myself that I need goals. I need something to strive for. I feel some need to have a measurable experience.

Pfffft.... whatever. I think I've done pretty well flying by the seat of my pants. I'm doing something I enjoy; I'm learning.

Hi, I'm Jim, and I'm an unaimed arrow. I'm happy now - not when I reach a goal!

“Come Here the Right Way” — From Someone Who Tries to Do Things Right

I’m not an immigrant, obviously.

I’m just a guy with a YouTube channel, a pile of banjos, and enough real-world experience to know this:

Most Americans have no idea what “come here the right way” actually means.

People throw that phrase around like there's a line to stand in. Like there's a ticket machine with a "Take a Number" sign on it. There isn’t.

Let’s pretend for a moment… humor me, okay?

Let’s say I wasn’t born here.
Let’s say I’m still a musician who earns an honest living online. No boss. No payroll. Just hard work, consistency, and community.

Now let’s say I want to move to the U.S.
I'm not coming to freeload, or to “invade.” I just want to live and work, openly, legally, and with full transparency.

Where’s the path?

Guess what. There isn’t one.

There is no visa for online creators.
There is no category for freelancers.
There is no form for “I support myself and want to stay above board.”

Unless I have a U.S. employer, a qualifying family connection, or a pile of investment capital, I’m completely out of luck.

“Just get a work visa.”

Let’s take that seriously. Let’s say I try to do just that. Ready? Buckle up.

My friend Tony McManus — one of the most respected guitarists alive — has spent decades working and performing legally in the U.S. His visa class? O-1. That’s the “extraordinary ability” one. It sounds lofty, and it is.

Oh, and just to be clear — this wasn’t his first time applying. Tony had already gone through this process before. He was simply trying to renew the same visa he’d held legally for years, to keep doing the same work he’s always done: performing and teaching music in the U.S. Here are Tony's own words regarding what that renewal took:

“The petition is 150+ pages of contracts, testimonials, press, and proof of commercial success. Each page was vetted and revised by lawyers.

Cost to submit: $5,000
Cost for premium processing (just to get them to look at it): $3,850
Application fee: $320
Courier, photos, packaging: $60

After three months of silence, I paid for premium processing. Still nothing.
Submitted my documents to the U.S. Consulate in Toronto as instructed — and they denied ever receiving them.

My Member of Parliament couldn’t help. Immigration consultants finally traced the package — it had been delivered the next day. Only then did they ‘find’ the documents and begin processing.

From start to finish, the process took six months. Six months of silence, confusion, and relentless stress.

During the final stretch — about ten days while my passport was stuck at the consulate — I lost $4,000 worth of work. That work was covered by an existing, valid, and expensive O-1 visa. But without access to my passport, I couldn’t prove it, and I couldn’t take the gigs.

My application status went from:
‘Who the fuck are you?’
to ‘In process’
to ‘Approved’
to ‘Issued’ — but only after opportunities had vanished.

This whole process is an utter fucking disgrace.”

Tony’s not asking for citizenship; just the legal right to work. Yet even he gets lost in the system.

“Come here the right way.”

So let’s define that, clearly.

To immigrate “the right way” you need one of the following:

• A close U.S. relative: a spouse, parent, or child under 21. In some cases, siblings count. Even if you qualify, the wait time can stretch 15 to 20 years.
• A U.S. employer willing to sponsor you through an expensive, time-consuming legal process — with no guarantee of success.
• A significant investment (often six figures or more) in a U.S.-based business.

If you’re self-employed?
A creator?
From the “wrong” country?

You don’t qualify.
Not for anything.

People say “come here the right way” like it’s a matter of paperwork and patience, but most folks don’t understand the truth:

There is no way.

And no, I’m not being political.

This isn’t about left or right.
It’s about facts.

If you’ve never had to navigate this system, don’t assume it’s simple. Don’t assume others are breaking the rules just because they don’t have your luck.

The rules are stacked. The doors are locked. The bar keeps moving.

So when you say “do it the right way,” ask yourself:
Are you giving advice?
Or are you just saying,
“Don’t come here.”

I am the Darkness

I Am the Darkness
by Jim Pankey

Do you really think you can hurt me?
Go ahead.
Bring it.
I welcome it.
I am the darkness.

No, I’m not the monster in your bedtime stories.
I’m the silence after the shouting;
the weight that never left.

I was raised in disappointment;
taught early that "no" was the only language the world spoke.

I didn’t merely become this.
I was forged -
in rejection,
in loneliness,
in places where no one saw me bleed.

Every slammed door, every whispered doubt,
every time I was told I wasn’t enough,
I took it.
I made it mine.
I wear it like armor now.
But don’t mistake my quietness for strength.
I’m not untouched.
I’m not unscarred.
I just stopped waiting to be spared.

Yes, it hurts,
But pain doesn’t break me anymore.
It builds me.
It reminds me I’m still here.

If you're coming for me -
come heavy.
Because I stand inside my own hell
still breathing.

You want to know who I am?

I exist.

And that’s not a concession.
That’s a fucking warning.

I Am the Between

I Am the Between
by Jim Pankey

I am...
Between here and there,
Between now and then.

Between good and evil,
Between loved and hated,
Between whole and shattered,
Between seen and invisible.

I am the Between.

Between the sadness and the tears,
Between the joy and the laughter,
Between the anger and the yelling,
Between the pain and the screaming.

I am...
The instant before,
The moment after
...what you find Between.

Between the question and the answer.
Between the unknown and the knowing.
Between too much and too little.
Between the voice that cries out and the ear that listens.

Between past and future.
Between silence and song.
Between what was
And what might have been.

Between the hand that reaches out
And the one that pulls away.

Between the note,
And the trigger

I am the Between.

Between who I am
And who I’ve been.

I am the Between.