Allison Moorer Official Website

I wonder sometimes if life makes sense, or if I make it make sense because I need it to.

For all of the big experiences I’ve had, even for all of the painful experiences I’ve had, I often catch myself winding meaning around what does or doesn’t happen. Not in a parable way, but in ways that maybe make me view them with, if not exactly clarity, then at least calm. I’m looking for reassurance that I’m not alone I guess, that there is a why to the what. That I’m not just holding on by my toenails to this hurtling blue ball we’re on.

Today’s topic is kindness. Last year I was focused on someone being nice to and attempting to connect with my son. I had been (and still am) so touched by the outstretched hand and heart of a man we’d never seen before and haven’t since. I don’t even have to go back and look at the entry — I remember it well. We’d been in the pool at our building in NYC — an indoor pool that, of course, is echo-y and that intensifies the sound and volume of John Henry’s vocalizing — which got on a lot of swimmers’ nerves. And I understood that. Nevertheless, we had the right to swim too and so we did. I tried to talk to him about keeping his voice down, and he tried so hard to do it when he could, but he couldn’t always do it, excited as he was. The man who I wrote about, insteading of shooting us dirty looks and talking to the lifeguard about us or asking me why he had to make that sound (like some people did), made eye contact with him, smiled, and made the same sounds John Henry did and it was one of the kindest things I’ve ever seen anyone do. He said, “He’s just fine. He’s beautiful.” I don’t know if the man had a background in therapy or if he had experience with autism in some way, but that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do. Join them where they are. My heart about burst that day.

We’ve had some rough times in New York City. I’ve not been shy about saying how hard the sensory onslaught of day to day life here has been, or about how we don’t have a yard to run and play in, or about how dangerous it has felt to me on certain days. It isn’t an ideal environment, in my opinion, for a young boy who needs lots of space to move and shout but needs that space to also be safe because he is likely to run off at any moment. We’ve been stared down and complained about and things have gotten scary as hell sometimes (for instance, John Henry jerked away from me and tried to run in the middle of 9th Avenue one day — luckily I’m still fast enough to deal with things like that), but as with most things, we got through it because we had grace to help us through. And that grace has come through people. I will miss the staff of our building, who have watched over us like protective big brothers and who all know and love John Henry. I told them all at one time or another that if they saw him without an adult that something was wrong and to catch him and come upstairs immediately because I had likely hit my head and passed out or worse. I will miss John Henry’s teachers this summer as he experiences that space I’ve dreamt and talked about him having. They are doing God’s work and are patient beyond belief. All kinds of folks have been kind to us, and I am grateful.

I couldn’t help but think about that kindness when I snapped this photograph of John Henry giving a kiss to a lady he’d never met before at his baseball game last Saturday. And I couldn’t help but think about how it is contagious, how it’s something we have to and do teach, and how we simply can’t do without it in this world. It saves us. That’s a meaning I’m proud to admit I attach to whatever I can. I’m grateful to find cause to every single day.

Happy Wednesday and peace and love, y’all.

AM

Another Mother’s Day has come and gone. Another year I searched for a photograph of my mama to post on social media that the world hadn’t seen before. I found one of her in her housecoat, standing in the kitchen, looking like she just woke up, looking like she was making biscuits. I remember her that way, bleary-eyed and looking for her glasses, squinting at whatever she was trying to see, sipping a cup of coffee, and getting ready for the day. Her biscuits were delicious, by the way.

That got me thinking about how my son might remember me.

Will he forgive me my weaknesses as I forgive hers?

Will he remember the after school snacks, the special hamburger patties with the chia seeds hidden in them, the way I melted popsicles and poured them into molds and refroze them so I could sneak vitamins in?  Or will he remember my constant urging to use the appropriate utensil when eating instead of his hands or my complaining about cleaning food off of the floor when he throws it? Will he remember the way I gave in and sometimes let him sleep in my bed when H. was away because I just wanted to hold onto the few moments that it was still halfway appropriate? Because I just wanted to listen to him breathe and be with him without having to constantly do? Because it comforted me to see him be peaceful for a few hours? Or will he remember when I gave in because I was too tired to lead him back to his own bed for the fifth time in a night but would’ve much preferred the bed to myself? Will he remember how patient I was with him? Will he remember that I used up most of my patience on him and had to work really hard to have any with the rest of the world? Will he remember when I absolutely lost my shit because he stuck his popsicle in my coffee cup or when he poured the water from the vase of flowers on the floor so he could slap his foot in it? Will he remember my habit of blue streak cursing and my near constant stress? Will he remember how mad it made me when he soaked the bathroom walls and floor every night at bathtime because he loved splashing in the tub so much but that I let him do it anyway and mopped it all up, time after time, day after day, sometimes two or three times a day? Will he remember my tears? Will he remember my hugs and kisses? Will he remember how I advocated for him, how I cheered him on, and how I fought so hard through my own emotional quagmire to try to figure out Who. He. Is? And how to honor that? Or will he remember my annoying habits, my nagging, and my exhaustion?

Will he remember my love?

You don’t get a halo and wings when you give birth. You’re the same person after as you were before, no matter how it changes you. Some things seem to come naturally with the miracle of becoming a mother — the ability to discern a hungry cry from a sad or angry one, the instinct to protect — but we don’t seamlessly become beings who always know what to do or how to handle everything correctly. Every human being walking on the planet is a testament to the failure and success of a parent in some way. We can’t blame everything on them, good or bad, there is personal responsibility, growth and maturity, and sometimes an outright miraculous distancing from anything unhealthy, but we can trace a lot of our flying and falling back to childhood. I digress…

The thing is, what I remember most about my mama was the way she loved me. She didn’t execute her intentions to bestow it on me perfectly, but that’s okay. I know that I fall short as a mama every day too, but I hope that I’m raising a child who will know that I tried, and who will forgive me for my imperfections, as I was taught to do. I think mothers show us, above all, how to be in the world. Wow, is it ever a hard job. It requires constant holding on and letting go, and whether or not we have wings, that is the dance of the angels.

Peace, love, and happy Wednesday.

AM

PS – I’d like to make a recommendation this week: Listen to Mary Susan McConnell’s MAMA BEAR PODCAST. I’ll be a guest sometime soon and I’m super excited about that, but you should listen anyway. McConnell is a badass mama and smart as a whip.

• 

I’ve got a uniform, and it doesn’t vary much. I know what I wear at home — jeans or trousers, a black tee or a white shirt, and if it’s cold, a cashmere sweater or lofty scarf piled on top. Boots, sneakers, slides. The jewelry I wear most days of my life — a collection of gold bangles that usually gets added to once a year or so on the same wrist as my watch that was made in my birth year, diamond studs or gold hoops, my engagement ring from H., signet rings with both his and John Henry’s initials plus a ring with an S on it for Sissy on my other hand, my tiny gold locket with AM + HC engraved on it that I hardly ever take off.

I know what I wear when I’m onstage or going somewhere I have to be seen — usually a dressed up or rock and roll version of what I wear at home. Throw in some leather pants sometimes and a killer pair of probably much too high high heeled shoes or boots.

I have a pile of black dresses, white dresses, lounge-y linen pants, and a few pencil skirts. I like selvedge denim and a Breton sailor tee. I love my Alabama Chanin pieces. I’m mad for a great jacket and gorgeous shoes. I also like hats. I’m lucky — I’ve honed it down. I know who I am and what I want to look like. I like a formula for dressing because it saves me time. When it comes to clothing I like it to be, of course, beautiful and good looking, but I often think of the Guy Clark song “Stuff that Works,” when I’m shopping, which I do little of. My shopping is usually done from this laptop because I do know what works and I tend to buy the same things over and over. I’m simple.

I haven’t been so simple in the methodology for my life. I’ve jumped around from this thing to that and have tried some things on that didn’t fit me at all. But that is changing as well. I would like to have stuff that works for my soul too, a type of uniform, things that I know I can go to that make me feel good, put together, and able to handle whatever is thrown at me. I’ve found that a practice of meditation, at least once a day if not two or three times if I can get to it, is the denim and tee shirt of my spiritual core. Maybe that’s a cheesy allegory but I like to think of it that way. Fabric breathes and lives, after all. Denim is reliable and always fits, even if it is sometimes uncomfortable (especially when you’re breaking a new pair of jeans in), and tee is a comforting touch. The other parts of my spiritual uniform involve centering myself and saying little prayers, creating mantras when I need them, or picking up one of the devotional books I keep around (these are the soothing cashmere sweaters, I think). It all works to create a core that I try to push toward an unwavering strength — able to withstand hard traveling, bad washing machines, and the occasional grass stain or accidental step into a mud hole or smoky bar. Much like the stuff that works in my closet, this is the stuff that works for my soul, for my life, for creating as much goodness as I can gather.

Just as there is a lot of fast fashion, which helps no one, there is a lot of pseudo spirituality and wellness talk out there these days. I’m not going to disparage anything that works for anyone, but just as I know what kind of time and effort goes into making a garment by hand, I know that a commitment to emotional health takes a lot of time and effort too. And that’s okay. I’m almost forty-seven and am just now starting to feel comfortable in my own skin and comfortable with the things I know I want to put on it. I know my body and what looks good on it. Interestingly enough, that is parallel to becoming more at ease with what’s inside me and what I need to do to make the best of it. I’m beginning to know what my touchstones are, those things that get me through my days and allow for the recognition of joy. None of it has to be perfect, but figuring out what the best daily uniform for dealing our imperfections is part of life’s work.

I this read somewhere: The more you know, the less you need. May I continue to shed the extraneous and become simpler, simpler, simpler as I go. Imagine a life that isn’t beholden to stuff. Imagine a spirit that isn’t held down by baggage. Now that would be something…

Thank you for reading.

Much love and peace and happy Wednesday.

AM

• 

Yesterday I looked at what my title would be for today. I didn’t immediately go back and look at what I wrote about this word last year because I wanted to give it some thought without any guideposts. I still haven’t looked at last year’s entry — I’ve been wrapped up in my thoughts about this word and what it means to me presently. I’ve been thinking, across a busy morning of life details — bank accounts, credit cards, life insurance policies — I had a bit of administrative work to do on my own behalf  in anticipation and preparation of some upcoming changes — about of what exactly I am in pursuit.

I have been attempting to deepen my meditation practice recently. I am taken by the idea of healing myself, of doing anything I can to increase my self-compassion and therefore give myself permission to let go of some things. And Lord, meditating is difficult work. I’ve got a monkey mind that’s swinging from some crazy-ass, long and tangled vines and screaming out warnings like y’all wouldn’t believe. I try to appreciate the rate at which it moves from this thing to the next, I want to believe that indicates a nimbleness that serves me well when it needs to, but what I really want to do is slow it down and stop it chattering at me. That’s all to say that I think the things I’m in pursuit of reflect that desire.

At this point in my life, what I pursue is not wide and shallow, but narrow and deep. And that’s the way I want it. I guess that’s to say that I know who I am. I just want to get better at being her.

So, what do I think I am in pursuit of on May 01, 2019?

I am in pursuit of a thinking practice, and a life that supports one, which means I am able to find time to sit and do it.

I am in pursuit of relationships with people who are dependable, who reassure me of their love because they know me well enough to know I need reassuring sometimes, who take time to listen and consider others’ points of view, and who make time to show up on something besides their terms when needed.

I am in pursuit of work that I do with my hands. Sewing, gardening, cooking, building, making. Things I like to do that connect me to my history, my present, my community, my earth, my world.

I am in pursuit of art. Writing and Music. My disciplines. I am in pursuit of a life that allows me time to explore and excel in both.

I am in pursuit of a spiritual life that grounds me and reminds me to be in this moment, and that nothing else is solid in any way at all.

I am in pursuit of healing. Carrying woundedness is painful, and taking a proactive approach to the work of letting it go has become essential to me. It may be, at the end of the day, my real life’s work. It may be everyone’s.

I am in pursuit of joy.

I am in pursuit of love.

I am in pursuit of magic and the wherewithal to notice it.

I am in pursuit of the next clean breath.

Maybe we need to think about what we’re chasing every now and then.

Peace and Love and Happy Wednesday, Y’all.

AM

• 

Last years thoughts:

Studio: The place for the study of an art.

I was actually in the studio when I wrote that. In the producer’s chair at Jason Weinheimer’s Fellowship Hall Sound in Little Rock, working with H. on creating what would turn into his most recent release, “What It Is.” It was fun, it was informative, it was collaborative, it was music, it was indeed study.

Today, my studio is my desk, a guitar, my iphone, and google drive. I find that my studio is wherever I am — technology allows that and I am thankful for it. If I were a painter like Frida, I wouldn’t have the luxury of portability as much as I do. I can study my art in most places if I have something on which to write and record. All of this is to say I’m going to record an EP this summer to go with my memoir, and preparation has commenced.

This is probably no surprise to some. It seems my work is never completed around this subject — there is always more investigating to do, more explaining, more excavation of emotion and spirit and struggle and the hope for some exaltation at the end. Exaltation comes, but only in short bursts when I successfully describe, for myself, a feeling through a piece of art that came through the study of first, myself. Self-doubt creeps in when I wonder if it has any hope of doing the same for the reader or listener. No, my work is never done. But my work is also my purpose. What would I be without it? Is my mind my actual studio? Is my art my self? In some ways I think that is true. We are all our own works of art, as our lives are our works of art.

So far there are six new songs, one unheard original written by my daddy and my sister (she found a lyric he’d written after he died and put music to it), and I’m also going to revisit “Cold, Cold Earth,” the hidden track that was on The Hardest Part. In some ways it’s my belief that the whole thing exists because of that song, that song that tells the facts but not the truth — I’m a better writer now, I can dig out more subtlety, more complexity, and I’m less afraid to be honest. I want to finish the job I started when I wrote that lyric down over twenty years ago.

So here’s hoping I pull together a worthy, not only companion piece to the memoir, which I worked harder on than anything else I’ve ever made in my life, but something that stands alone as a document of its own merit.

I find that most artists’ works are connected — we all have our unique stories to tell and we tell them until they’re fully told, if we get a chance. I’m very thankful to have mine.

Happy Wednesday, Y’all.

AM

Last year I wrote about the word of the day that I had received that morning. The word was ken — which means knowledge, perception, or cognizance, the range of sight or vision. A side note — I never noticed until recently that the word is used in “Sixteen Going on Seventeen,” from The Sound of Music. “Timid and shy and scared are you, of things beyond your ken…” It’s amazing what the ear ignores that is unfamiliar. I hadn’t known the word before and didn’t even realize it was used in the song. Anyway… that’s pretty meta isn’t it?

I’ve been thinking about my awareness and acceptance of myself lately. I do try to be self-aware, but can we really be that without feedback from others? I’ve gone so far as to ask for it directly lately. I want to know how I’m doing, in my relationships, in my work — I think a lot of times we think we want to know, but we don’t really. We fear harsh criticism or even kinder remarks that might help us along our way and show us what we need to improve. Maybe we have to get to a certain level of self-acceptance in order to be able to face what others might really think. Until then, it’s head in the sand, heels dug in.

It’s not that I want to fit myself into someone else’s idea of who I should be, rather that I just want to improve through my own filter. I think it takes a lot of self-love to be willing to make even subtle shifts. When there is an absence of it, pain is usually at the forefront of the personality in one way or another, and pain hates change. It seems that if we have a lot of it (show me the rare person who doesn’t), it rules us until we find a way to work through it and start to let it go. Pain makes us stubborn because we’ll do anything not to feel more of it, but we only start to let go of it, in most cases, when it gets so bad that we can’t carry it anymore. Only then do we start to rewrite the script. Only then do we start to make changes. And sometimes that takes a while.

I’ll be forty-seven this year. I have wrinkles, frizzy hair, and am not happy with my body though I’m trying to love it the best I can. I recently went blonde to deal with the white hair that is now growing out of my head. I get botox twice a year. Perimenopause or whatever the hell this is is about to kill me. I wake up in the night sometimes sweaty beyond what could be considered at all cute and have to carry a paper fan in my bag at all times incase I have a hot flash in public. I take more showers per day than I used to. I’m full of strong opinions and apparently don’t shy away from making them known. I’m also apparently blunt and honest, sometimes uncomfortably so. I am impatiently patient. I have money anxiety. I will sometimes do anything but what I need to be doing. But you know what? I’ve got a lot of heart. And I’m trying to love all of me the best I can, particularly my flaws, because they need the love the most. Just like the pain does. I know I’m probably halfway finished with my life. I want to make the second half as good as I can, and I want to do it with a clear-eyed sense of myself and stay on my toes so that I can be worthy of this incredible place and the beautiful creatures with whom I get to roam it. It isn’t easy. But now and then I think it’s a good idea to ask, “How am I doing?”

I’ll just leave that right here.

Happiest of Wednesdays and lots of love to y’all.

AM

PS — Thanks for reading.

I cut my hand on a piece of my Mama’s china while unpacking it a few years ago. I wrote about it in my memoir, as the pages go back and forth in time from past to present, one memory jarring the next, one occurence taking me back to my past and the memories drawing attention to some parallel in my present. I wrote about when I sliced my hand open on a saucer, how I stood there for a moment, almost transfixed, marveling at the depth and cleanliness of the gash, and how it almost immediately started to try to close itself.

Humans are magic. The human body certainly is.

Healing is a sort of magic. And it is also very much not magic. Sometimes it takes a whole lot of hard work.

I think about the thing Louise Bourgeois wrote: “The art of sewing is a process of emotional repair,” and I think about how we work so hard to repair ourselves every day, all the time, stitch by stitch, choosing happiness over sadness, peace over anger, conversation instead of withholding — it’s all taking a needle and thread to whatever has popped open. Even to get over the slightest emotional injury, even some off-handed comment someone made that I’m sure they didn’t consider, for me, requires me taking myself through my paces — “don’t take it personally, they didn’t mean that the way it came out, that wasn’t directed at you, ease up and don’t take it so hard…” I’m a sensitive woman.

I think we all, at the end of the day, are sensitive creatures.

But I think about that cut on my hand and how as soon as it was made, my skin started to try to go back together. Why don’t our hearts do that? Or do they, and we prevent them from healing, from going back together, by returning to the wound and re-opening it over and over, agonizing over which of our imperfections would cause someone to carelessly bruise us? Why does the magic take so much longer to work on our hearts than it does on our skin? I suppose that’s why we have the skin, to at least physically protect the muscle and bone that protects the most vital and most vulnerable parts.

Yet one day we wake up and we don’t remember the thing so vividly anymore. Like the faint scar that’s now on my hand from that broken piece of my Mama’s china, most of the heart wounds get better too.

Yes. We indeed have stars in us. Don’t forget to see your magic.

Happy Wednesday, Y’all, and lots of love.

AM

I don’t know anyone to whom planes aren’t quite important. It seems we’re all on them all the time these days. When I was a little girl, anytime I heard about someone flying somewhere I thought it was the fanciest thing in the world. Now people go to the airport in their pajamas and dragging pillows as if they’re getting into a flying bedroom. Clearly I have a problem with that lack of decorum, but I’ll examine that another day, in another post. It used to be much more uncommon, this globe trotting we all seem to do. John Henry took his first flight, from NYC to Los Angeles, when he was just five weeks old. He first flew to the UK seven months later. Hell, my dog was constantly on a plane with me, in his little bag down at my feet. He was great at it. Meanwhile, I was fourteen before I flew for the first time. It all blows my mind when I think about it. Here, there, yonder… Pillar to post… No need to debate the merits or demerits of such lives. Not today anyway. It is what it is. And what it is provides us with, if not stability, at least wonder.

I prefer not to think about the danger. I prefer not to think about the odds stacking up every time I or someone I love boards a plane. Today, I’m just thankful for them. I’m thankful for the opportunities they afford us in love, in our other pursuits, in just being there, wherever that is, when we need to be.

H. came in from his tour yesterday for about forty-eight hours. This, a haiku from our very early days:

Thank you Wright Brothers

Marvelous silver wings and

Shiny fuselage

Safe travels and happy Wednesday, Y’all.

AM

• 

Last year this title came to me because I’d forgotten the week before to do my blog post. I wrote about giving myself a break. Today I return to that thought.

Recess. To go back? As in the action of recession, to recede or make an indention in, or the suspension of a procedure. Like moving forward with something, an action or conversation, and then taking a rest from it. Oh well, language is confusing. No matter – I guess we can agree that a recess is an identifiable break. I think of it as a little notch. Yes, that seems to encompass all the possible definitions.

We need breaks. I needed that break a year ago. I have this conversation often — with friends, with H. — about how we need to step away from our devices, television, work, our mates, even our children, so that we can take a deep breath and center ourselves, so that we can hear our true selves talking. Do y’all ever wonder what your true selves are saying that you aren’t tuned in enough to hear? The idea that at least some physical pain is caused by unexpressed emotion comes to me… the tight throat, the knotted up stomach, the literal aching heart… what am I ignoring that desperately wants to come forward and make itself known to my conscious mind when I feel those symptoms?

I remember being a girl, around 12 years old, and having my Daddy come into my bedroom to talk to me. This was NOT a common occurrence, y’all. He and Mama had had one of their falling outs, probably, no, not probably, certainly over his drinking and violence. I don’t remember if we’d packed up and left and then returned home after a few days that particular time or not — we did that a lot so I don’t even know if I recall every time I shoved all of my clothes and shoes into the backseat of the car and we drove off to some friend’s house or to my grandparents’ only to return a day or two later, but I do remember how I felt as he delivered his  lines about how couples that had been together for 20 years didn’t just break up. And I remember thinking to myself that I didn’t understand why they didn’t, because obviously he and my Mama needed to do exactly that and then some. But I couldn’t say it. And every ounce of that unexpressed feeling settled in my throat because I wasn’t safe enough to let the words out. All I could do was cry.

I wonder what might have happened if I, or someone else like a responsible, clear thinking adult might’ve been able to persuade them to recess. How might things have turned out if they had been able to tune in to their true selves and honor them, and recognize their need for some space and perspective on the situation? It’s hard to think about. But I’m getting closer to letting our story out into the world and it’s on my mind a lot. I miss my Mama something fierce these days. I wish she’d had the luxury of a recess from her constant work, her constant worry, her constant battle just to exist. I wish I could’ve seen her at ease, even for just a little while. Selfishly, I wish I had a recess from being motherless sometimes. Just a minute with her would, well, I don’t know what that would do.

What I do know is that what’s missing in my life is now replaced with the desire for awareness of why the bel hevi takes up residence in my gut. What’s missing in my life is also sometimes replaced with the luxury of a minute to escape whatever is in front of me that I can’t bear to show myself to, so I can wrap my own arms around myself in, I don’t know, let’s say a restaurant bathroom when I have to leave the dinner table to keep from ruining a nice evening because I need a minute to shed a tear or two when a song comes through the speakers that conjures her memory so palpably my heart hurts. The other night it was, “Night Shift,” by The Commodores. No, most times we don’t see it coming.

We can’t face it all all the time. Sometimes we need a minute, or more. Overwhelm accomplishes nothing positive — we can only react when cornered even if it’s only by our own emotions. I think about my 12-year-old self in that bedroom, feeling cornered by my Daddy and I want to bust up in there and rescue myself. I want to tell myself that it’s okay to take a minute to locate the feeling that was coming from my true self instead of letting him have control over me. Those tears I cried came from utter helplessness. And I want to tell that same thing to him too. I wonder if someone had comforted him through his own overwhelming emotions, if someone had given him the luxury of a recess, if he might’ve taken a different path.

That got heavy. Sometimes it does. I’m not deleting it, my hour is up.

Peace and love and happy Wednesday, Y’all.

AM

My memoir is officially available for pre-order today.

That’s one of the craziest sentences I’ve ever written.

It is a beautiful spring day in Nashville, the very first one, in fact. How fitting. The birds are singing, the sky is clear, and the green things are reaching toward it. I am amazed at the complexity of life and how everything sometimes fits together, even for just a minute, like a perfect spring day. The more days that pass, be they spring, summer, winter, or fall ones, the more I know the thing to do is to recognize that.

Even though it may not seem like it’s fitting together through all of our stresses and problems, our joys and our tears, our triumphs and our failures, it IS in ways we can’t comprehend. But we always feel it when we turn the corner on something — we cast our glance backward and see how we were preparing for things to align.

It’s similar to a chord. Like the sweet spot on my Daddy’s Gibson B25 — I like to capo it on the 3rd fret and play a C — the notes combine to make a beautiful and perfect sound that would be different if the notes changed even one bit. I look forward to hearing it, but I also know I can’t play only a C chord capo’d on the 3rd fret. Other chords are usually required to make a song.

We break and we heal. We suffer and we laugh. We move and we shake and we rock and we roll and we persevere. We move forward with any hope, with love in our viewfinders.

When I started writing this book I didn’t know what I was doing. And I certainly didn’t think, if I ever turned it into a real something, that it would take seven years to have a little light shine on it. But what do you know? I did, and it is illuminated. And I see now how everything I ever did prepared me to be able to do that work and tell an important story.

On those cold February days, we think spring will never come. But it does. It does.

Peace and love and happy Wednesday, Y’all.

AM