Coordination and Production:
Sara Serpa & Jen Shyu
Development Editor for M³ Fall Equinox 2024 Cohort 7:
Kyla Marshell
Copy Editor:
Lane Speidel
Cover Art:
Melissa Almaguer, from her writing “Explorations of Human·ness: Self-Reflections” in “III. the return to presence”, ink on paper, 2025
Acknowledgments: Special thanks to the Mellon Foundation, Jerome Foundation, Kenneth Rainin Foundation, Nancy & Joe Walker, mediaThe foundation, New Music USA, CRS (Center for Remembering and Sharing), Christopher Pelham, Arlene and Larry Dunn, Emily Bookwalter, and all of our individual donors and supporters.
Contributors: M³ Fall Equinox 2024 Cohort 7
Melissa Almaguer
Carolina Borja-Marroquin
Paige Brown
Alexandria DeWalt
Coco Elysses
Noa Fort
Maddalena Ghezzi
Chanelle Ignant
Summer Kodama
Daisy Mangwato
Manu Ranilla
Yuhan Su
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Foreword by Sara Serpa and Jen Shyu
1 Love & Hugs, Duchess: 10 Life Lessons from My Grandmother by Alexandria DeWalt
2 Safe and Sound by Noa Fort
3 Sounds That Never Left by Daisy Mangwato
4 Traveler’s Note By Yuhan Su (旅行須知 作者/ 蘇郁涵)
5 The Sound of Moving On: For Mama Sunshine by Paige Brown
6 Some Good News from Mount Koya by Summer Kodama
7 Semente by Manu Ranilla
8 Explorations of Human·ness: Self-Reflections by Melissa Almaguer
9 Book of Elysses: The Transitioness by Coco Elysses
10 Elements: Inspirations for Action Towards Climate Change by Carolina Borja-Marroquin
11 Returning Home by Chanelle Ignant
12 M words: Two Creative Acts by Maddalena Ghezzi
Foreword by Sara Serpa and Jen Shyu
M³ has just lived its fifth Summer Solstice, returning full circle to the season of our birth in 2020.
At that time, we began imagining a new paradigm for mentorship and mutual learning, focusing on what we as women in the music world wanted but did not have. It was the height of the pandemic, when musicians’ lives were suddenly upended by travel bans and restrictions on gathering. It felt like the world was undergoing an unprecedented crisis, one whose effects hit our community deeply, especially those who were already struggling. During the pandemic, we were incredibly active, hosting Zoom meeting after Zoom meeting, hoping that this pause might also become a moment of reflection and realignment for cultural institutions. Perhaps people might slow down just long enough to finally pay attention to those who had always faced systemic challenges in building a music career.
Now having commissioned 92 artists across 8 cohorts, M³ has since become a laboratory of experimentation for us as creators, dreamers and instigators, in finding new approaches to better support and elevate musicians. We’re committed to building a space where musicians can grow, thrive, and define success on their own terms–where their presence, identity, or outward expression never overshadows the depth and value of their music.
Five years later, we are even more active. Our vision is a work-in-progress, only possible thanks to the ongoing support and generosity of our growing global community. We gathered in New York on April 25th to celebrate this important milestone and couldn’t be more grateful to the musicians, artists, and friends who joined us. This change not only can happen; it is happening. Its roots are growing, and its fruits have been and will continue to be harvested over time.
As we find ourselves once again living through immense uncertainty, where respect for human life and the natural world is being eroded in both public discourse and throughout our planet, it is necessary to be courageous and to not let fear paralyze us from dreaming for a better world.
We watch politicians posture for profit and war. Borders, real and imagined, are used to divide and exclude. This Anthology of Writings Volume 7 stands in resistance to all of that, reminding us that the borders that matter most are the ones we dissolve through connection. Music and art keep our imagination and hope alive, beyond the noise of social media and endless digital scrolls, providing spaces for real connection. It is more important than ever to listen, support and show up for musicians, because through them, we feel less isolated. Music embodies all that this moment holds: sadness, rage, grief—but also joy, strength, and gratitude.
And so, after five years, we offer you this beautiful new volume of the M³ Anthology written by the 12 musicians that were part of our Cohort 7. While reading it, may it spark in you an impulse to look out for one another with more attention, respect, and humanity.
Sara & Jen
1. Love & Hugs, Duchess: 10 Life Lessons from My Grandmother by Alexandria DeWalt
My grandmother, Betty (or as we called her) Duchess, was the glue of my family. She never encountered a stranger, made everyone feel like she was their mother or grandmother, and cured all ailments of the heart and body with her cooking. As I reflect on my own life, I see just how much she influenced how I navigate life today.
So, here are 10 pieces of wisdom from my Duchess:
- Confidence on the inside, confidence on the outside
You must apply your lipstick before you take any picture. No one could take a picture of my grandmother unless she had her lipstick on (and her wig and clip-on earrings). I used to say, “Ugh, Duchess, it’s just a selfie. No one is gonna see it,” and she would respond, “I will.” She understood that if you feel confident in your outer appearance, you’ll feel confident internally.
- Maintain daily practices
Duchess would spend most of the summer with me and my brothers in Houston. Each day, we had “reading hour.”; we chose a book and had to read for at least an hour in solitude. She would then visit with each of us and ask questions about what we had read. During those younger years, solitude could mean that you did something wrong, but for us, it gave us the space to think, take up space, to be. It also encouraged us to prioritize learning even though we were out of school for the summer. Always stay open to learning.
- Rest your back
Every now and again, Duchess would just get up and say she was gonna go “rest her back.” Looking back, it was usually after times of strenuous cooking, long periods of social stimulation, or sometimes just randomly. It was common knowledge that when her bedroom door was shut, that meant that she did not want to be disturbed. This was a lesson in keeping boundaries and prioritizing rest. She listened to her body and allowed herself the space and permission to rest, whatever that may look like.
- Treat yourself
You must have a midnight snack, preferably ice cream, preferably two scoops. Without a doubt, my grandmother always had her midnight snack: two scoops of Blue Bell Butter Pecan ice cream. This is her version of treat yourself: Go get that little treat, take that nature walk, watch that one TV show. It has served as a reminder to keep my happiness at the center of my life.
- Physical cards matter
Duchess kept a library of birthday, anniversary, Valentine’s, and all-occasion cards, and everyone received them. If you did not receive a card, she would call and sing for you, whatever occasion it was. In the age of Facebook birthdays, she would encourage us to pick up the phone and call our family and friends, and send them a card. There’s something special about sifting through your mail and getting something that’s not an advertisement for a new credit card but a card from someone you love.
- In the end, it’s worth the struggle
I hated vegetables; I mean absolutely detested them when I was little. I would refuse to eat them, but my grandmother did not play that game. I was not allowed to get up from the dinner table unless I had taken at least three bites. Silly me would try to outlast her, but she had the patience of a tiger. She also had a secret ingredient that would help–– sugar. I would always ask her to add her secret ingredient to the vegetables. This was a lesson in learning that you’ll have to do things that you won’t want to do, but there is always a little sweetness to it, and you know in the end you’ll be better for it.
- There’s no plan, only preparation
I was nine years old, and I had my first solo in my church’s Christmas program. I was supposed to sing the first verse of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” and another boy was supposed to sing the second verse. Being the perfectionist I was, I asked Duchess, who was a pianist, to help me practice. When we practiced, I finished singing my verse, but she kept playing. I was confused. She asked, “Why did you stop singing?” I told her that I only needed to know my part, and the next part belonged to the other child. She told me that I should learn everyone’s part just in case. So we practiced the whole night until I knew all of the verses. As fate would have it, the boy got sick before the Christmas program, and I had to sing his part! I thought to myself, “Well, Duchess was right!” I learned that the best plan you can have is to prepare yourself for anything that may come your way.
- Shine brightly
I was scared to play dominoes against my grandmother, even after she taught me her strategy. She was ruthless when it came to playing this game–she didn’t go easy even on us youngins. It was fun watching her calculate each move, and when it was a really, really good play, she would slam that domino on the table. When you saw her slam that domino on the table, you knew you were toast! This was a lesson in self-assuredness. No reason to be arrogant; let the game play out, and let each person have their turn. But when it’s your time to shine, shine brightly. No one can take away something that was meant for you.
- Be yourself, no matter what
If you heard “Ah sookie sookie now!” yelled in the middle of an elementary school band concert, it was probably my Duchess. I remember during my senior recital, I was in the middle of improvising and all I heard was “Ah sookie sookie now!” Of course, this was not new to me, but for some reason, it affected the rest of the band! They shifted into another gear and sent the energy through the roof! This not only happened at concerts but also at dance recitals, track meets, football games, basketball games, you name it. She was front and center, letting you know she was there to support you and liked what was going on. Always show up as oneself—you never know who needs you to be you.
- Music is Joy, Music is Servitude
My grandmother, along with my parents, instilled the joy of music in my brothers and me. From the beginning, we were all drawn to it. In her later years, Duchess held down at least two or three church gigs in her small town of Kosse, Texas. While I never got to see her play at church, she always made it a point to play piano with my brothers and me. Our favorite song to sing together was “Jesus, Oh What a Wonderful Child.” She played and sang until the end of her life. She believed that music was her ministry; it was her way of giving back. She would say, “God’s gift to you is your life, your talents; your gift to Him is how you live it.” She did not believe that one played music in order to satisfy the ego, but to serve one’s community.
Thank you, Duch.
2. Safe and Sound by Noa Fort
I do not know how to use words
trustfully
so that you will understand.
the Vastness
cannot be contained in
black dots.
crowded one next to the other,
they shape the barrier
between you and me.
Sounds
can be felt
resonating viscerally—better understood?
the sounds I hear:
of sirens calling—find shelter
of my racing heart
an airplane flying low
a woman crying behind closed doors
silence in the streets.
the sounds I don’t hear:
the sound of a child’s empty stomach
the sound of drones circling in the smoky sky
flames engulfing bodies
a father kissing his dead daughter’s foot
gunfire shots at an ambulance.
and the sounds that travel, oblivious of the border
of raining bombs.
in me is a scream,
growing so loud
it’s deafening.
the sounds I long to hear:
a mother’s lullaby for a sleepy baby in a quiet room
a child’s laughter as his brother tickles him
a sighing crowd of people, unafraid.
a note swelling and moving through me,
meeting others and reverberating.
the sound of crowds calling
the sound of crowds—
Hope.
3. Sounds That Never Left by Daisy Mangwato
My name is Daisy Mangwato, a village girl. I’m from a small rural village called Ga-Phaahla, a community of the Bapedi people, surrounded by beautiful landscapes, mountains, flora, and fauna in the Sekhukhune district of the province of Limpopo, a province in the Northern part of South Africa. Though I’ve been physically away from home for a long time, home has not left me. I still have beautiful memories from childhood—kilometers walked through rocky footpaths to and from school, leaving in the early morning to collect firewood in the mountains of Dilokweng and Tidi with my friends, roaming the village, our bare feet pounding the earth until our legs became dry and ashy. This is where music was unconsciously etched in me, the folk songs my maternal grandmother sang around the fire, mixed with stories from her childhood, while my siblings and I listened. It was in my village that I first encountered Kiba music,
Dinaka/Kiba is a traditional Bapedi male song and dance. Dinaka means pipes, and Kiba means to stomp. The dance incorporates reed pipes and a family of drums and involves rhythmic stomping of feet synchronizing with the drums, specifically the khaiso/phoesene drum, which determines the rhythm. The dance is deeply rooted in cultural heritage and is often performed during celebrations, ceremonies, and social gatherings. It is not only for entertainment but also a way to preserve Bapedi history, heritage, and values through song and dance.
One particular encounter with Kiba stands out. It is almost sunset, standing with friends next to a marula tree, watching with amusement a group of men practicing a dance routine. Drums played, and the dancers followed the rhythm from the phoesene drum, their feet mimicking the rhythms produced by the drummers, dancing in jubilation. One man held a reed pipe that produced call-and-response melodies. I was mesmerized. In our village we entertained ourselves by playing indigenous games like diketo. But Kiba also played a crucial role in instilling cultural values and appreciation of the art of music. TVs were scarce in the villages in the 90s—only privileged households had them. Radio was common as a means of communication, with only one station using battery power since there was no electricity. Because of this, we spent more time outside with each other and went to hear Kiba live.
I had always loved music from an early age, but what confirmed this was in my teen years in high school, when radios with cassette players became more accessible, and I could play albums and listen to music. I finished high school, and in January 2004, a year later, I relocated to Pretoria, a distance of 250 kilometers from my village, to figure out what to do with my life. A year after my move, I enrolled in my music studies.
One thing about memory is that it comes uninvited. It dwells in its little corner, waiting for the moment to pop out, moments of joy. It’s amazing how memories fade, but later in life come crawling back, unexpectedly, making my heart long for those beautiful, innocent moments. I didn’t know this sound lived in me, and that 20 years later I’d be writing about it and composing music with its elements. When I was a kid, watching men dance to the sound of drums, little did I know that those drums were inscribed and stored somewhere in me, and they would find their way back. Though memories fade, this one remains unblurred.
4. Traveler’s Note By Yuhan Su (旅行須知 作者/ 蘇郁涵)
The globe on the map in front of her glows
in golden yellow, deepens into indigo.
She steps back and looks at
all the little things and big deals of the world, skewed in their order,
and eventually merging into a quiet and calm ocean.
That long, straight arc across the glorious orb
imperfectly draws the balance between halves.
The sun in the east shines upon her nostalgia.
The moon in the west awakens her inner yearning,
The nuance lost in translation
is the hymn she hums on sleepless nights.
5,475 days,
12,680 kilometers.
We always want to know as soon as possible
when we’ll reach our destination.
She was never bold enough to guess the future.
Once a fortune teller said to her:
“All the way to the northeast. The best route to go.”
In the same direction as this bumpy line,
that she’d been searching for with all her might.
An interesting coincidence
which she’d been trying to find.
She wasn’t sure if she had a big enough backpack
to fit all she needed
in possibly strange weather.
She realized as she walked:
strength and fruits can be gathered patiently along the way.
It’s better to use your hands than a dictionary.
Once she heard someone say:
“Home is just a concept.”
But when we’ve been all over the place,
when we’ve set up tents in the hustle and bustle of the red lights
and the tranquility of the lakeside…
Which is home?
Where does this magic line begin, and where does it end?
She’s pondering what time zone she’s in
during this Northeastern move;
whether it was a departure
or a return.
Home is a song we sing in the midsummer dream,
the hollows of trees where secrets are being told.
Home is the smell of memories.
A jug of wine fermented by the sweetness and solitude of a traveler,
in the darkness of the night.
She took a few sips at the onset of the sentimental fall.
It tastes like the future
direction of the magic line
她從來不迷信也沒有足夠的膽量去預知未來
生辰八字顯示
『一路往東北方，最好』
這與她窮盡了心力一路顛簸拓出的路徑
竟是同方向的精美巧合
她眼前那張偌大地圖上的圓球發著光
深藍靛色中的金黃
退後些步伐從遠方眺望
所有芝麻蒜皮的瑣碎
歪斜被攪亂了的秩序
終將匯結成靜謐沈著的海洋
那道橫跨左右長長不筆直的弧線
不完美的擺放出了奇妙的平衡
東方的太陽是永遠的鄉愁
西方的月亮是未知的嚮往
掉落在語言轉換縫隙中的餘音
是她在失眠夜裡哼著的調
五千四百七十五日
一萬兩千六百八十公里的距離
我們總是想趕快知道
能夠到達目的地的時候
當初她不確定是不是有足夠大的登山背包
裝得下
不確定因子的無限上綱
在走著的時候發現
力氣和果實 都是路上能夠耐心採集的
比手畫腳比字典來的管用
曾經聽人說過
家只是一種概念
然而當她四處為家
在喧嘩的紅燈酒綠
和恬靜的湖畔皆搭起過篷帳
這條神奇的線的起點和終點
哪一個是家
她還在思索這個一路東北的行動
是存在在哪個時區中的離開抑或歸途
家是一首仲夏夢裡的歌
是樹木們保守的秘密
家是回憶的陳香
屬於旅行者的甜蜜和孤獨
在暗夜裡釀成一壺酒
她在多愁善感的秋意來臨時
淺酌
關於未來
就遵照那條神奇的線繼續前行吧
5. The Sound of Moving On: For Mama Sunshine by Paige Brown
What sound does it make when a soul departs this plane and leaves for the other side? What is the tone, the timbre, of the letting go? Is it muffled? Is it clear? What is the key of the moment? The melody, the line? Is it found in a soft breeze, in the chill after spring rain? Or is it the break in the clouds?
Is it an old, forgotten spiritual, heard through the cracked floorboards of an abandoned church? A head-bowed prayer? Or is it the bawdy, raucous, juke-joint blues, belted through a gold-toothed smile? Taking its sweet time, and taking up the space you leave behind? What is the song of your goodbye? And why am I held captive in the listening?
Soft, at first. Days, weeks, months before its time. A faint ache; a familiar, primordial sense. A yet-to-be-ness: the damp smell of earth in nostrils before the storm; the waxing crescent peering through a thicket; the mournful, submerged strains of distant whalesong, miles from the point of destination. Low. Almost imperceptible, yet undeniable. The presence, the portent of a new reality. Naively, I strain to listen at first, as if the song were unclear as if I do not recognize its refrain. Such lilting tenderness in its chorus, such beauty in its rendering; almost siren-song. I lean in closer, as if it were a favorite tune I truly long to hear as if I will not later yearn for silence. It goes:
“I was here. Once, I lived. Now, I leave. Let me go.”
The truth—pregnant, soft—cascades like showers at dawn. Awakens me, subsides, then comes again. The rising, falling strains of this new knowing—
That you will no longer be here.
That you will no longer be.
Here.
Slowly, suddenly, it covers me—and now I dwell inside a new reality.
I am entangled in a dissonant wood. Bare and unsparing, daylight, but clouds—a pallor in the sky. Unconsciously, I believe that I move forward, my gait unchanged. In truth, I am next to motionless, suspended in a sliver of time where the memory of you is almost not a memory; where every second, I re-forget that you are gone. Here, a mandatory flight of well-worn recollections; there, a never-ending catalogue of snapshots with tender, frayed borders. Like Sisyphus and his beloved boulder, a series of “what ifs” arises, unyielding. An occasion, un-created; a salutation, un-uttered. Wishing, then releasing. A recurring dream from which there is no waking.
And then, in my grief, a new line emerges. A nascent harmony, a distant modulation. This time, I do not lean in. This time, I turn away—but sound follows. And it sings of the task that you have left to me, to us:
“Continue.”
Continue! Conform the rest of our lives to the shape of your absence. Adapt. Adjust.
A stinging mandate. A bitter herb.
How dare you ask this? How dare you?
But with this charge comes realization. A stardust-covered memory, a moment sheathed in amber. Your bawdy blues through a gold-toothed smile. Your brazen, love-filled laughter. And then there is you, and you remain. Again, and always: the smell of fertile earth in my nostrils after the storm; sunshine blazing through the thicket, illuminating a chorus of emergent blossoms below; the jubilant sounds of whalesong at the point of arrival, the herd reunited at its destination. Rejoice! Sending seismic waves reverberating throughout time.
You are limitless.
And though the comfort does not outweigh the chasm, the truth remains.
Your song continues.
We will hear.
For Dorothy “Mama Sunshine” Lyles
September 2, 1947 – April 5, 2025
6. Some Good News from Mount Koya by Summer Kodama
7. Semente by Manu Ranilla
A mound of living seeds,
that’s what I saw for the first time.
A pulsing garden bed,
I was struck.
Hands in the soil,
time in our eyes —
we sprouted.
Women from every corner.
Our ground:
sensitivity,
courage,
presence.
What moves through each of us,
is different.
But it moves.
It meets.
It crosses.
It recognizes.
We are fragments of everything and the whole:
voice, body, soul.
We feel the past and present at once.
It’s a real network.
It’s life, alive.
In each of us:
a season,
a language,
a dance.
Yet the rhythm—oh, the rhythm—finds itself.
We are leaf, fire, flower,
sound, star, and seed.
A fruit that falls
and returns to the earth
to begin the time of now.
Xylem and phloem.
Roots and canopy.
Body and cosmos.
We are here:
harvesting art,
planting existence,
watering growth,
celebrating connection.
And this beautiful, unnamed feeling—
too vast for the dictionary,
too immense to fit in the chest.
Um monte de semente viva.
Foi o que vi pela primeira vez.
Fiquei impactada.
Era um canteiro pulsando.
Mão na terra,
tempo nos olhos —
brotamos.
Mulheres de todos os cantos.
Nosso solo:
sensibilidade,
coragem,
presença.
O que atravessa cada uma
é diferente.
Mas atravessa.
Se encontra.
Se cruza.
Se reconhece.
Somos pedaço de tudo e do todo:
voz, corpo, alma.
Sentimos o passado e o presente ao mesmo tempo.
É rede real.
É vida viva.
Em cada uma:
uma estação,
um idioma,
uma dança.
Mas o ritmo — ah, o ritmo — se encontra.
Somos folha, fogo, flor,
som, estrela e semente.
Fruto que cai
e volta pro chão
pra recomeçar o tempo do agora.
Xilema e floema.
Chão e copa.
Corpo e cosmos.
Estamos aqui:
colhendo arte,
plantando existência,
regando crescimento,
celebrando o encontro.
E esse sentimento bonito sem nome —
grande demais pro dicionário,
imenso demais pra caber no peito
8. Explorations of Human·ness: Self-Reflections by Melissa Almaguer
explorations of human·ness
I. the questioning
II. the observation
III. the return to presence
ask: what are my toes touching?
feel it.
ask: how would I breathe if i were at peace?
breathe in that way.
ask: if i weren’t thinking about this, what would i be doing?
do that.
if i’m having a conflict with someone else,
can i visualize them smiling and smile back to them?
hug a tree, thank it.
list 3 things you like about yourself.
thank yourself out loud for that.
get a cup of water and ask the water for whatever you wish.
thank it and drink it.
visualize the water entering your body,
transforming yourself into that which you wish to be.
don’t try to change how you feel.
be curious about it, observe it, relax into it, surrender.
talk to yourself, guide yourself.
do something silly like putting your shoes on backwards.
life doesn’t have to be that serious.
IV. the understanding (a journal entry)
V. the food for thought
9. Book of Elysses: The Transitioness by Coco Elysses
PROLOGUE
SHE-WHO-IS-ALL-OF-THEM-NOW BEGOT SHE-WHO-IS-TO-COME, BEGETS SHE-WHO-ALL-THEY-ARE-TO-BE. FOR SHE-WHO-IS-TO-COME SHALL HEAL US ALL.
One night, I dreamed I was my grandmother, mother, daughter, and granddaughter. Time, like liquid. Two, I have yet to meet. Perhaps I have. If we carry the genetic code from the line, does the line return? We are always returning, turning, flipping, falling back to from whence we come.
I am the daughter of a Mississippi Black woman, drenched in hot sun, baked, toasted, girl named Oberia. I am tales from turpentine masks, caring for those afflicted with TB, I am Pearl. I am tales of the son of a Choctaw mother, with the occupation slave, my name is Tom. I am him, who was the most sought-out root-man curing clap. “Bera, don’t you sat in the chair, gotta warsh it fo’ it be okay…that man was burning.”
I am she, the African name Let. Dan married me, the darkest berry, because he loved her. She was a memory from a time when he was free. Him, who came here from a long time ago. They from Lucy. Confirmed twice, one from a medium, one from DNA. Her who told. The medium was not Black, but of a spirit that lived and worked with them in an ancient time in Kemet. She said to her, who was all of them now, “Someone from your mother’s lineage wants to come through. She’s a direct descendant from Lucy, with very few mutations, L1b1a. L1b1a is where they are from. The place missed. Anakatu.”
CHAPTER I
THE SECOND COMING OF OBERIA
SHE-WHO-IS-ALL-THEY-IS-TO-BE
She-who-is-all-they-is-to-be told She-who-is-all-of-them-now who she is. She visited before with two, and the other left. The one who left was he. He-who-will-return. I wonder who he will return as. She-who-is-all-they-is-to-be speaks, one month in utero. She came to me. She was speaking full sentences in a language I understood. I am her translator. She spoke to the one who detached from the tribe. She detached because she had to. She had to create a world for her own. Her line, her progeny. Everyone needs to have a line. Lines mark things in time like a grid, a landing place for them to see as they come.
She is close to me, like sand to water, bridging gaps and spaces in time. Quiet and serene, liquid and light. Her eyes, clear and loud, like silence, where knowing is never forgotten. You know her without introduction. Contract tight. When they come, they feel like contracts, signed in the ethers. They belong, but they don’t be owned. Never understood the owning these dwellers, have.
They like special ships passing between time and space. I didn’t feel owned. They feel foreign and familiar. They come old and leave young, like babies. When Oberia left, she was surrounded by love. She, who is not Black but of a spirit that lived and worked with them in an ancient time in Kemet, reminds me of why I came, who I am, and what she taught.
She-who-is-all-they-is-to-be, quiet and hidden. She comes easy, sweet, delicate. A flower yet to be seen. She hears things that they don’t and processes at lightning speed. She brings a quickening, an elixir, so potent. The stars align and scatter, dust-like. And make way. She-who-is-all-they-is-to-be decided to return. Work, undone. Too soon for she, who is all of them now. She-who-is-all-of-them-now, not ready. She-who-is-all-of-them-now needs preparation. She-who-is-all-of them-now, ego dissolved.
She-who-is-all-they-is-to-be has a lesson. She is the catalyst for healing, especially for She-who-has-yet-to-come. This is a special task, and she rewrites the story and straightens the line. Lines be crossed for some time. They be hidden in tracks of less obscure things. All wrought with things. She-who-is-all-they-is-to-be, is also called time of water, water. Sometimes we call her that, the meaning of her name. Wynter Eamah. She washes clean, mind, body, and spirit. She melted the heart of She-who-is-all-of-them-now. How will she heal—She-who-is-all-they-is-to-be, time of water, water.
She-Who-Is-All-of-Them-Now
It is time. It is time to clear the way with direction. She-who-is-all-of-them-now needs time to rest. She-who-is-all-of-them-now ready but feel not ready. She is the matriarch. The owner of time and their stories. Those who came to heal. It is their line. The healers. The brave ones who go where no one goes. They do they work. In darkness and dis-ease.
The Tribe Returned
She-who-is-all-of-them-now be gifted with sight. To see means 360 degrees. All around. In time and out of time. Of things that need to be dissolved and dismantled. The degrees of decadence and of speculation. Spirit uses those who are imperfect. Those who the works will be shocking to see.
The Last of Them, Gone
He goes by El Toro. El Toro gone. He got up outta here. He here and there. He with her, the first coming of She-who-is-all-they-is-to-be, or Oberia. They can be in multiple places.
CHAPTER II
THE SECOND COMING OF
HE-WHO-WILL-RETURN
He-who-will-return has returned. Real quick. Like lightning. He comes with an understanding now. When he came before, he left fast. Didn’t like to be here yet. Now he comes with the Original Oberia. She be all in the dreams of She-who-is-all-of-them-now. She be laughing and talking loud. Original Oberia wants to be clear that she is here, in flesh and in spirit. Folks don’t understand the logic of it all because they think linear. I said the line is crooked for a reason. The folks from the continent be knowing. Oh, of rules he is not. For he comes and is of the work. The work on all sides, but especially of men, the men that do, the men that preach. The men that heal. Rabbits and deer and gardens. He is the Merger of the Original Religion. Light, water, rock, and stones. Materials and things of tangible use.
Ah, see ma to a ma see a ma blee a ca a ca. Singo se la fa a ti no be. Selah a be a re na ta fa tib a o no di la ma na.
A representative of the underground hiding places for religious nomads. He will wear a beard. He will tell the truth. The truth of his people. I will be one of his teachers.
He has so many. So many teachers and so many gifts. I (She-who-is-all-of-them-now) must get out of the way.
His place will be the place of transformation. I will talk about this with his mother, She-who-will-heal-them-all. She is now the mother of two. It’s tight and it’s time. I am the observer of a thing that is taking place. Mover and shaker.
How to move out of the way
I move to the side of my thoughts. My thoughts are not of those who are here. My thoughts move to move those things. Things that need to be moved. Things that need to be healed. I move through the spaces with Original Oberia. She is my assistant. She knows that terrain. The inner and outer. What a great teacher she is. She speaks in signs, symbols, and song. What is the original song of the tribe? Who remembers it?
She, who is all of us.
Book of Elysses – The Transitioness is a visionary, genre-defying, codex book that channels ancestral intelligence, Divine purpose and Afro-Futurism. Authored by Coco Elysses and received through the spirit entity Briah Sheps Maat, the work serves as a spiritual archive of a Black family’s karmic lineage and sacred purpose.
10. Elements: Inspirations for Action Towards Climate Change by Carolina Borja-Marroquin
What is climate change? A crisis, one of many that Earth and its inhabitants have gone through. Humans, as caretakers, must address it.
May these poems inspire you to take action towards what we all need to do to mitigate the effects of this impending catastrophe.
Air/air
Wasn’t there a house here?
And a park
here?
Where is the laughter of childhood?
I only heard thunder
I ran down to the basement
Basement?
What is that?
There are no basements here
When I went up
there was nothing
only loneliness
Turn and turn
what is the beat?
beat of the world
beat of the temple
given to the human race
centuries ago
Turn and turn
detachment
from the material
the superfluous
the linear
Turn and turn
build a circle
nurture it
take care of it
only now
it’s up to us
Water/water
Sunk in greed
drowning in torrents
of frivolity
forgetting who gave birth
the root
Humidity
that weighs
the water
passed the throat already
Drop by drop
on our feet
on our hands
let it roll
let it nourish
care in the wave
wave in the cadence
Beating shoulders
happiness that cries out
How do they sound
the hands that help,
smiles that lift
and dry sobbing?
Earth/Earth
The piled-up rubble
crying
screaming
Why don’t they hear us?
The voices of the ancestors
still children
aim
at those who only watch screens
and keep going down
And going down
Earsplitting movement
sobs
Guilt accumulated
or ignored?
Grief hurts
at the center of that being
that gift
that was given to us
at birth
Lifting asphalt
turned to stone
weighs and cleans
One day
a hundred years later
they found them
they were just bones
Let the tears roll down
clean
Tom tom
torom tom tom
Symmetry
or ancestral impulse
to let it all go?
Stomp
stomp harder
clap
soil
wood
metal
Do not replace
what can last
learn to repair
remember how to let go
Listen
place your ear
against the ground
Listen and perceive
the suffering
of the global south
Fire/Fire
On the West Coast
there is actually suffering
scorching flames
boiling bodies
The ignored words
from older siblings
remind us
year after year
where not to build
But the entitlement
the freedom
comes first
It burns
it blazes
it catches fire
it scorches
The wise trees
disappear
dreams
and yearnings
for participation
and community
The flames have sound
color
even texture
Will it be possible to make a sculpture of them?
Mother Earth Human Soul
11. Returning Home by Chanelle Ignant
Five of us sit at the far end of a multipurpose room at La Peña Cultural Center in Berkeley, CA. The doors to the street are open, and anyone is welcome to join in. This small gathering is our monthly Freedom Song circle, a sonic haven in our discordant political times.
“I woke up this morning with my mind…”
Hands clap along to the rhythm of my driving acoustic guitar. Voices rise and fall. Each person takes a turn leading a verse, and we all respond…
“…stayed on freedom.”
For a moment, I’m a child in the basement of my grandmother’s C.O.G.I.C. church, where we had late-night prayer service, and her hums and groans created a music of deep longing for deliverance. The words we sing today in this circle are different, but the spirit moves in the same way. As we become lost in prayer, we join the choirs of voices that called for freedom in the 1960s, their struggle for liberation mirroring our present-day calls for the same.
I first heard about freedom singing while studying at San Francisco State University. I learned how Civil Rights Movement student organizers like Bernice Johnson Reagon and Bettie Mae Fikes used song to invite everyday people into the movement. They took congregational songs, already rich with coded cries for liberation, and made them even more overt.
A song calling for pious living…
“Don’t you let nobody turn you ‘roun’. Keep the straight and narrow way.”
…became a statement of steadfast determination:
“Ain’t gonna let nobody turn me ’round. I’m gonna keep on a walkin’, keep on a-talkin’, marching up to freedom land.”
These songs galvanized the people at sit-ins and marches to become participants, singing the melodies they knew, underscoring their messages.
I’m grateful for the rich legacy I can now honor—and aware of my own complex relationship to the music of the church. My childhood was saturated with gospel music. My grandmother, a Sunday school teacher and youth choir director, hummed these melodies all day and night. The cadences and rhythms became pillars of my musical lexicon.
But when I came out as queer, I no longer felt at home in the music, or in the church. Though the songs were about salvation and love, I didn’t feel free to be myself. How could I revel in the joy of this music while hiding myself from the folks singing it?
As we continue to sing and play in the song circle, I’m reminded of the power traditional gospel music has to ignite spaces. It is the music of good news, after all—hope, redemption, and freedom. No wonder it fueled folks sitting in jail cells,facing the terrors of racism. No wonder we need these songs in these times. And no wonder I feel safe here.
We have always been singing songs to free ourselves and each other.
I’m at home in this music again-–fully accepted, and free.
12. 
As I near the end of my first pregnancy, I’m reflecting on the 10 years it took me to make this decision. There were years of grieving my father and fearing that motherhood might impact my music career. Even after becoming pregnant, I’ve called it “the M word,” unable to say “motherhood” due to fears shaped by patriarchy, invisibility, and pessimistic messaging from some women and feminist circles that this would be a difficult experience. But what if, instead of projecting our fears onto people, holding them back, telling them they won’t make it, or “Wait and see, you’ll lose your creativity” or “You’ll struggle; it will be hard,” we just said: “Give it a go, experience and explore, I’ll be here if you need me; I’ll accompany you every step of the way; fly as high as you can!”
To overcome my fear of “the M word,” I decided to link it to another creative act I’m more familiar with: music-making. I examined the connections between 
This graphic score represents my desire for people to accompany and protect any mother through this wonderful, overwhelming journey of motherhood.
Title: The 
Performers: trained/un-trained vocalists who would feel comfortable with vocal exploration including improvisation and extended techniques. The mother* who organizes the performance will decide who the performers are.
Aim: A collective experience using vocalization to accompany one mother* into a strong version of themself.
*With the word mother, I refer to adoptive mothers, biological mothers, birthing people…
Notes for performers
Instructions for 
The
A creative experience
An adventure in change
A different way to explore your garden
A nest protected by wolves and gentle people with lanterns
The process of detaching your head from your body, letting it go into nature and re·member water1
A misunderstood act by society
A learning curve
A status-giver, a status-eraser
A listening act
A liberating experience
A game with ever-evolving constraints and freedoms
A community, a village
A seeing and observing exchange
A composition
The necessary essence of beginnings, the winding roads of middles and the relief of endings
A collection of emotionally charged moments
Affected by lack of imagination and joy
A personal journey
In the body and in the mind
You and not you
Tagliare la calzamaglia2
An eternal work of discovery
The joy of being exactly who I am3
Instructions for 
When 
Instructions for 
1 Title of the piece co-written with Melissa Almaguer (M3 Cohort 7)
2 Direct translation: “cutting the tights.” Inspired by the founder of Procreate Project, Dyana Gravina’s performance at SLQS gallery on March 8, 2025
3 Phrase from Creation: The Joy Of Being, Reciprocity by María Grand