November 2026
It's a mellow November evening here in Oregon. The rain has returned, there's some space music playing in the background, and I've been thinking about Raven Radio.
Actually, I've been thinking about a lot of things.
I went back and read the blog I wrote in July, shortly after returning from Sitka. At the time, I was beginning to understand that the documentary I had set out to make was becoming something more personal than I originally intended.
I still believe that.
But somewhere between July and November, I lost a little of my connection to the project.
Not my interest. Not my commitment. Just that sense of forward movement I'd felt while I was in Sitka, conducting interviews, walking familiar streets, and rediscovering the people and places that had been such an important part of my life.
I came home with some wonderful interviews. Conversations with people who helped build Raven Radio, people who continue to keep it going, and people whose lives have been shaped by it.
But I also came home feeling that I hadn't quite accomplished everything I'd hoped to.
There were questions I should have asked. Stories I wanted to explore more deeply. Connections I hadn't quite made. I had gathered a great deal of material, but there was still something missing.
I think I have a better understanding of what that is now.
And perhaps that's what the last few months have really been about.
Thinking. Listening. Reconsidering.
Trying to understand not just the history of Raven Radio, but what happens to a community when the institutions that connect its people begin to disappear.
That question has become especially relevant as federal funding for public broadcasting has been stripped away, leaving small community stations facing an increasingly uncertain future.
Raven Radio is more than a frequency on the dial. It is a connection between communities, generations, and people separated by the geography of Southeast Alaska.
And I want to get that story right.
I'm continuing to work on interviews and developing plans to return to Sitka in late spring of 2027. There's more filming to do, more people to speak with, and some important pieces of this story that I still need to find.
Of course, getting back to Alaska requires money, and that's an ongoing challenge. I'm exploring additional grants and other funding opportunities to help make that return possible.
I'm also hoping to participate in a documentary filmmaking fellowship that could provide some guidance and help me develop my skills as a storyteller. I have a great deal of experience with stories, sound, and images, but documentary filmmaking has its own language, and I'm still learning to speak it.
That's part of the adventure, I suppose.
And speaking of adventures, 2026 has been quite a year.
Some of it has been extraordinary. I've made progress with my filmmaking, writing, and other creative projects. I've met wonderful people, made new connections, and found myself pursuing possibilities I might not have imagined a few years ago.
There has been plenty to celebrate.
But it has also been a difficult year.
October marked one year since my mother passed away. I don't think I've completely understood the ripples her absence has created, or how they continue to move through the lives of the people who loved her.
In September, my father suffered a heart attack. He was extraordinarily fortunate to survive it, and I'm grateful that he's still here.
He's also trying to find his way forward after losing his wife of 63 years.
Sixty-three years.
It's difficult to comprehend what it means to share that much of your life with someone and then suddenly find yourself having to navigate the world without them.
I've been thinking about that quite a bit lately.
About relationships. About the people who remain in our lives. About the people who drift away, and the ones we sometimes have to let go.
I've made some decisions this year about the relationships I want in my life. I've stepped away from people who, for whatever reasons, didn't seem to value the friendship or offer the same consideration I tried to give them.
That's not always easy. But I think there's a point in life when you begin to understand that your time and energy are worth protecting.
And that the people who love you, care about you, and genuinely want to be part of your life deserve the best of both.
I've been fortunate to have those people around me.
In fact, when I look back over this year, being with the people I love, and who love me, may be the most important thing of all.
Which brings me, perhaps inevitably, back to Raven Radio.
Because isn't that really what I've been trying to understand?
Connection.
Belonging.
The importance of having people in your life who recognize you, listen to you, and make you feel that you're part of something larger than yourself.
It's what I found at Raven Radio when I was a teenager. It's what I heard in so many of the interviews I conducted this summer. And it's what I continue to find myself thinking about as this documentary takes shape.
I don't want the film to become my personal story. Raven Radio has a remarkable history, and the people who built and sustained it deserve to have their voices heard.
But I am beginning to appreciate how my own experiences help me understand why that history matters.
Perhaps I've needed these past few months to recognize that.
So here we are, halfway through November, with another year drawing to a close.
I realize I've missed a few months of blogging, and I appreciate those of you who continue to check in and follow the progress of Raven Radio: Voices Across the Water.
There's more to come.
I'm hoping to share additional Field Transmissions, updates on the documentary, and some of the stories and interviews I've been collecting. I'll also be writing more as we move toward the end of 2026 and begin a new chapter in 2027.
For now, though, I'll leave you with something that feels especially important to me tonight.
If you're reading this, I hope you're surrounded by people you love and people who love you. People who care about what happens to you. People who listen. People who show up.
Hold on to those connections.
Life has a way of reminding us just how important they are.
And perhaps, in the end, that's what all of this storytelling is really about.
Thanks for reading. Thanks for following along.
Cheers,
Kurt
