105.

I believe in singing circles.

Sunday morning, elbow deep in flour and buttermilk I greeted Christina with her quiche and Dean with his banjo from my biscuit-making station. Simon’s upper half was occupied with the scraping of breakfast potatoes in the skillet, but his lower half dedicated to greeting the melodies wafting over from the Vision Church of Atlanta with shimmies, shakes, and shudder bumps. Then Celo’s “Sup y’all” as he lugged his guitar up the stairs and delivered his mama’s famous enchiladas to our table. Bethany arrived after him, sticky buns in one hand, egg shaker in the other. Eggs, scrambled (not shaken) were prepared by Matt.

There is something quite unremarkable about breaking bread with people you care about. Folks do it every day, so I guess this means I also believe in the unremarkable. Those mornings in the thick heat of the Georgia summer taught me a few things about living right. Lessons I keep in my back pocket.

Still rubbing our full bellies we’d grab music makers and our songs would slowly drown out the neighboring gospel choir. Rise Up Singing! always in an arms reach, we’d pause after a hearty rendition of “I’ll Fly Away” (a little gospel singing of our own) to determine the next. Townes? Country miles less holy, but that’s no matter, that’s not why we gathered anyhow. There was a strange way that those mornings, sitting and singing, silenced everything else that had a way of weighing you down as you grow big in the world. It was simply making songs happen…together. I’ve never been a woman of faith, but with a house of God in shouting distance, there was little I could do to not let the vibratos work their way into my questioning heart. Those mornings where folks brought their whole selves - sweetness, vulnerability, collaboration, mistakes – those mornings felt like church to me. Filling more than my belly, those brunches nourished my soul and silenced my wanderings for a moment brief enough to allow me to glimpse an honest sort of love. Undeniable joy.

Those Sundays are as distant as my daddy’s old farm now. Professional life and passion uprooted most of those early morning all-stars, but I still believe in singing circles just like I believe in endless pastures, home-cooked meals, and hard work. I believe in them because I’ve learned that a campfire burns the same in Vermont as it does in the Blue Ridge Mountains and everyone loves a hand-crafted brunch. That harmonies never stop sounding like an old friend, even when they’re a collection of new voices and the goodness that folks give each other and themselves in those moments is disarming, and we all need to be off-duty from time to time. I can’t quite name this magical sincerity and goodness, and I’m okay with that. It’s the feeling that I believe in anyhow.

It feels like slowing down.

It feels like home.