Dear Country Concerts,
From the moment I first went to you
Cowgirl boots rocking in the stars
Flashing lights like the northern lights
Singing along to the late nights
The late night drinks, the late night music
Us speeding along like there is no tomorrow
Time Standing Still
Living the life we dreamed of
Stomping our feet against the wind
Night Flowing like it’s never going to end
Healed hearts,
Phones disappearing like ghosts
No service, no responsibilities
Becoming one with music
The music is you
Heartfelt conversations and times
We’re all the same
We’re all the same in the moment
Swaying like astronauts in space
no gravity, no gravity

Where and when I feel most at peace: A poem titled “Dancing at Pride with Butterflies”

A girl, too afraid to
Dance
Goes on a road trip
With new friends
And a second
Chance

A girls trip to
Pride
Uncertain if she
Even fits in
With this new
Tribe

To herself it feels like
Butterflies
That finally found
A home where
They can freely fly
Souring through the
Skies
She found a place
Not on a map
Like a pin
But in herself
She found release
In her own skin
She finally felt peace

A girl, too afraid to
Dance
She swims through the
Crowd
Eyes closed, she spins
And lands in bliss
One with the music
She danced as
Always she would
Fearlessly
All because she took a
Chance

-Sasha Nichols

I fall into a trance… One where I live through my peaceful desires. Seeing myself drifting on the musical waves of my bass strings, croaking in harmony.

I land into another vision, one where I’m bringing peace with my fist. I train the martial art to release the heat. I take a left and a right to the jaw, slipping out of my trance. Rattle, Rattle, as I croak in harmony.

When I wake, I shake my head in disbelief… I made it. I’m back on my lily pad just drifting down stream. Take it easy Bufo!!!

Hello my love,

How fitting it was that I first met your father thousands of miles away from our overgrown backyard on the fringes of Appalachia. At his colmado — a neighborhood bodega and makeshift bar, you explained — in Villa Juana — the hood, you explained — as a raging frenzy of politically charged demonstrators flooded and throttled the streets around us. It was best to be careful this close to the election, we were told, only to later find ourselves caught in the throes of the collective and unrelenting march. Every street that was ever paved was created with the potential for such chaos, as long as humanity exists to take to them with signs, chants, shouts, shoves, and song. The neighborhood was manic and alive. Two tall stools along the countertop bar of the colmado, alongside your father and uncle, were the only refuge. That, and the beer in big bottles so cold they had frosted over white.

Hundreds of miles away, in the all-inclusive resorts that dotted the outside of the islands eastern half, conservative tourists paid top dollar to be kept far removed from the very havoc that now swirled around us. There is much that could be said about that sunny afternoon that melted into night as tall green beer bottles wrapped in soaked white paper piled up on the counter. Every once in a while, a shot of Brugal to loosen the screws around us. The clamor from the street behind us melted into the distance as the day wore on.

There was a peace that I felt in the hours that followed unlike anything I’ve felt for a while. In that moment, alongside you, young, newlywed, half-buzzed, at the climax of an adventure that had taken us to what felt like the throbbing edge of the world. Each atom around us buzzed with the vibrance of a visceral reality — far removed from the one we left behind, which now in retrospect seems so self-obsessed and comfort-prone it is stripped of most real authenticity. It was a return to the squirming, crying chaos we are all born into and are all so quickly trying to put behind us, it seems, where concerns of which toothpaste nine out of ten doctors recommend, celebrity feuds, and a flimsy freedom prevail — as long as your car note, electric bill, and the grass in your yard are all constantly minded.

And I could still feel the echoes of what we had left so far behind after your father rolled his wheelchair to the front of his corrugated steel home and began blasting the Bee Gees and Barry Manilow on a tower of front-room speakers. His story, which played out over Presidente and styrofoam cups of liquor, continued — the sicario who put him in his wheelchair for life after opening fire on a street, just like this one, thirty years ago, might be locked up in a Mexican prison somewhere. It was a conspiracy plot, not a freak tragedy. Revenge was still on the table, however improbable. The Americans have been, and continue to, pull the strings around here in ways no one can fully imagine.

Now, it was Bob Marley’s turn on the speakers. Darkness settled over the neighborhood while people who knew you, my love, as a little girl, stopped by to see the woman who had become of her. The woman I would eventually marry and see the world through pandemic and protest, deaths, both big and small, champagne-soaked celebration, and quiet nights lit only by campfire sparks. There is a peace in finding what’s worth surrendering to and fighting like hell against everything that isn’t. There is a peace in allowing the world to swirl around you, let it do what it must, its best and its worst, as you take in your fellow man. There is an ancient spark in spirited debate over a passed bottle; in a father reuniting with daughter; in the embrace of a community.

As we left the neighborhood, headed back to the center of Santo Domingo, as my sweated-through clothes stuck to my back and legs, I considered that I had been a part of something unique, holy, even for one night, and that, across the world, neighorhoods and communities, shared moments like these where people ventured from their front doors, set up some plastic chairs in the shade, shared a meal they cooked, bought a neighbor, or stranger, a drink.

It helps to be reminded of these things every once in a while.

I want to thank you, my love, for your very existence and for bearing witness to it all alongside me. There is a peace, warmth, and dazzling beauty in sharing it all.

Love,
J

In my little house
In a state up north
Rocking peacefully
Back and forth

Children still sleeping,
Safe and warm in bed
Calm quiet thoughts,
Float in my head

Sipping my coffee,
Warm in my hand
A relatable feeling,
Most understand
Awaiting the day to go as planned

This time allows my mind to adjust
To put my best foot forward,
This is a must

A deep breath in,
Inhale the grateful
A deep breath out,
Exhale the hateful

In my rocking chair,
Feeling so at peace
Morning sounds of the honking geese

The cars start passing by more often
As the sounds of the geese
Begin to soften

I get up to the sink,
Rinse out my cup
The rocking must wait,
It’s time to get up

Take on the day,
The peace and quiet must wait
Time to get going, don’t want to be late
Press pause, on my peaceful state

Fast forward to the end of the day
Dinner dishes done and put away
Children warm and safe
Again, in bed they lay…

On her forehead,
I kiss my daughter
Then back to the sink,
For a cold glass of water

Sit down, take a sip
Again, at peace
Take a deep breath
For a calming release

Rocking peacefully
Back and forth
In my little house
In a state up north.

Remembering words, sensations, and feelings
Scattered post-it notes in my brain.
Zumba, a typical Saturday morning.
I can’t live without it.

Bursting eardrums,
Dance in the back.
My bunion wincing, begging to take it slow
embracing the memory foam from my ocean blue Skechers.
Today will be great.

Dancing away from worries, insecurities, and the lows.
Being mindful and following the beat as it goes.

No longer counting 5-6-7-8.
Singing 1-2-3-4
followed by Mr.305’s signature “Dale” (Dah-lay).

No audience, just dancing for our bodies and mind.
Chorally chanting yet panting, “Manos arriba”
thrusting our arms above our heads.
This is my community.

Feeling the sweat on my back
Smiling with every step
Giggling between each body roll.
Enduring and giving it our all.

Ignoring technique
Because the best dances are those done with passion
Martha Graham is on my sticky note.

Merengue, cumbias, hip-hop, bachata,
some Bollywood dance moves take part in the fun.
Adding “sabor” to every dance, my own flavor,
Make it make sense.

The music transports me to Michoacan,
The summers with my family.
Although fading,
I feel it through the lyrics,
The instruments coming to life.
The dances clinging to diverse cultures.
The beauty of it.
A spectacle to be felt,
A fuel to the soul.

Zumba,
not just a workout but a mindset
to “gozar de la vida,”
To enjoy life.
Feeling this as I dance to La Vida es un Carnaval,
Half turns and spinning
Moving hips like dancing waters,
This is my happy place.

To: Us, Seoul
There is rarely a time in my life I feel peace. The incessant dialog on repeat in my head combined with the every evolving chaos I find myself in has always held me captive. In my car, my room, the store, the fields by my house, I am always looking over my shoulder. I have always walked on glass shards, knowing if I am not prepared, if I close my eyes for one second, they will cut me open. The first time I felt my feet on solid ground was the Summer of 2022. A place so far away from my home, yet it felt like the only home I would truly ever know. I traveled by train all the way down to the coast. I thought I saw things clearly my whole life, but it is like the passing mountains and meadows I stared at out the window was the first time I saw life in color. When I arrived at my destination, I saw a tall gray building with sleek tiles. The clouds were thick pillows of tears, waiting to soak the earth. I texted my host and asked how to get in and he must have talked to someone in the apartment because suddenly a tall, slender man came out the door and said, “Are you Brynn?”. It was a question, but it also felt like an answer. Soon, I met 4 other individuals who would be my roommates for the summer. Another man with sea glass eyes and a shy demeanor, A girl with jet black locks and a smile that said “I’m glad you’re here”. Then appeared the girl with a striking laugh and one with reddish brown hair dancing around the most delicate face I had seen. At first, I felt like I was always waiting for something else, for someone else. I could breathe, I could see, but I felt my chest tighten whenever someone spoke to me. I didn’t know what this was. I didn’t want to run, but I was afraid to stay. I guess that when you have never been still, stillness feels much like chaos. It keeps you on edge because you don’t understand why nothing is falling apart. As the days passed, I became very familiar with this feeling. The initial unease I had turned into comfort. It turned into belonging. We spent our days laughing, dancing, exploring and supporting each other through the many journeys we had embarked on outside the moments we spent together. When we ate, we always prepared each other’s plates first. When you cried, there was always a hug that followed. If you smiled, it was always returned with a promise of recognition. A promise that in this place, we could make something special. We didn’t speak the language, we were halfway across the globe, but it felt like it was the only place we’d ever known. I remember every piece of the home we shared. Not the one we physically were in, but the space that we created and enveloped us wherever we were as long as we were together. Nothing ever felt strange or out of place. I often think of all these moments that form a film in my mind’s eye. The places we saw forever on replay. We walked all over the city, finding special spots in every corner. We traveled to the coast, felt the waves grasp our hands and we talked about the lives we had left behind. I discovered that I always looked for the highest point in any building we went into. I sat by the windows, watching the lives of those outside unfold before me. I saw the mountains encircling this beautiful home we built. I saw the miles of houses and buildings that never seemed to end in any direction. It was the, and is the most beautiful thing I have ever bore witness to. I often travel back,not physically, but mentally to this place. I am sitting on a rooftop in Jongro while staring at the N. Seoul Tower. The air is thick and the sun is starting to burn my skin, but I can’t go inside. All the things I saw, and the things I did, was the most magical thing in my life. It was the most magical place. I often wonder if I will ever feel that way again. Will this place be the same? Or is this all magic because it could ever only happen once? These days, when I want to feel peace, there isn’t a place I travel to physically. I put on this film and I watched how beautiful it all was. This place is where I first started living. I see it anytime I feel lost and alone. I remember that it was real, that it was perfect. A record of our youth. I know one day I will arrive there again, open my eyes and breathe as if it is the first time. It may be different, but I know that the peace these moments gave me will inevitably find me again. Maybe in different people, in different seasons, but I know I’ll recognize its presence. A glimmer in the gaze of someone sitting across from me or a song playing over the speakers as I wait for my order. We’re inextricably tied together through memories of the past and through the visions of my future.

Sincerely yours,
B

Peace may be a place
Peace is sometimes a feeling
It can even hit me in a certain space
I had to be willing
Willing to let myself feel free
Indulge in that state of mind
There is a lot of beauty to see
To embrace that peace you are seeking to find
Sometimes, it’s the sound of waves that hit the
beach
Or the breathtaking scenery while taking a stroll along the park
I love the stars shining bright in the dark
At times, it’s a goal finally in reach
No matter where you are in your life
Seek what makes you feel at peace
I had to let go of the strife in my life
Reminding my self of the beauty around me to fill that missing piece