Country Pocket

Andy Hedges is careful to say that he’s not a cowboy, though to assume he is one is an understandable mistake. Hedges has an encyclopedic knowledge of ranching and cowboy culture and a love for everything Western. His voice is deep, measured, and has the sort of drawl that all together is worthy of a role in an old radio drama. He runs a podcast and spoke to me over zoom, but most of his cultural references come from a time before modern technology. He was home schooled in Tokyo, Texas by a father who was a bull riding pastor. He listened to old music on cassettes and grew up around cows and horses.

“This would be in the 1980s, but it was almost like I was growing up in the 1950s,” said Hedges. “It had a tremendous influence on me. When I was a kid, I thought all I wanted to do was go work on a ranch and be a cowboy.”

It turns out that Hedges would discover a different niche in the Western world. While watching an episode of Austin City Limits, he was first exposed to cowboy poetry in the form of Michael Martin Murphy.

“I was just hooked. I had found what I was interested in as a kid,” said Hedges. “I was obsessed with cowboy poetry, cowboy music, and I’ve been immersing myself in it ever since. I’ve always gone out of my way to say that I’m not a cowboy. I’ve never earned my living ranching. I have a tremendous amount of respect for the men and women who have those skills and who made those sacrifices. But I have spent a lifetime living in the rural west, really pursuing these stories. By the time I was 15, 16, I was travelling on my own to perform at cowboy poetry events and ranch rodeos. That’s really the tribe of people I feel like I belong to as a close observer. I’ve sometimes been called an amateur folklorist. I feel like it’s a culture you could spend a lifetime pursuing as an artist.”

It’s not just Hedges’ aura that feels frozen in time. The values expressed in The Westerner are what America was built on. With cynicism and nativism squaring off in public debate, it’s easy to forget the beautiful ideals America, and specifically the West once held dear. Hedges put the title poem, written in 1915, to music. The idea of a fresh start and a values based meritocracy is a gorgeous one, and the phrasing makes it all the more enticing: “My name is mine for the praise or scorn/and the world began when I was born” and “Class and rank are a worn out law/for all clean men are as good as I.”

“Out West, we don’t care where you’re from or what colour skin you have. We care about your character, whether you treat people fairly or are an honest person,” said Hedges. “If you’re not, things are not gonna go well for you out here. I think that’s a Western value, and it’s cool to see it reflected in writing from that many years ago. I think there’s still relevance for these old songs, these old poems. Some of the beauty of this old music is that it’s tradition that’s being passed on and people find them to be relevant, but I don’t get too wrapped up in how it’s going to strike people in 2026.”

By focusing on the history and old texts, Hedges is indeed acting as a sort of historian. He presents the ideas for us to judge, but he presents them well. The songs he set to music himself are especially good, taking advantage of his low register and strength when he’s half speaking. There’s a wistful quality to his voice, quite perfect for the Western mindset he described.

“When you look at the old poems, from the very beginning of the American Cowboy, there was this lament for the passing of the West,” said Hedges. “The first people settling this area, I think they knew they were seeing things that would never be seen again. I think they knew civilisation would be encroaching on the West. There was always that sense of loss, even in the earliest cowboy songs.” 

Hedges says his deep respect for those working the land comes from their commitment to tradition and willingness to do what it takes to live the way they want to.

“The way of life has continued on. The working cowboy is alive today, but you see a lot of family ranches not able to survive,” said Hedges. “A lot of things have changed. A lot of places would be horseback more than they are now because now there’s pickups and trailers. They still value those skills. They try to improve on that all the time. There are probably better horsemen and people more knowledgeable about working with livestock than there were in the old days, so some of it’s even improved.”

His guest vocalists in Dom Flemons and Ramblin’ Jack Elliot are well chosen. They’re both former guests on his podcast and both full of cowboy knowledge and stories themselves. Hedges’ podcast, Cowboy Crossroads, includes a wide range of guests including cowboys, poets, musicians, photographers, and other folklorists. The fact that Hedges converted interviews into guest spots shows how amiable and knowledgeable he is. He’s also a fantastic listener. 

“What often happens is that through that time you spend together, you kind of get to know a person. By the time we finished that interview and it came out on the podcast a bit and corresponded about it, you get to be friends,” said Hedges. “You never know when you interview somebody what kind of stories may come out, and that’s a real privilege to get to collect and share those stories and be a guardian of these people’s lives.” 

During our interview, Hedges even recited the first poem he learned as a teen. The subject is a rotting cow in a stream, and the speaker goes into detail: “She was… oozing and slipping her hair/her eye sockets were alive with maggots that thrive on dead flesh.”

As a teen, Hedges was asked by a restaurant owner to recite one of his poems to a group of older diners. 

“It didn’t occur to me that my favourite poem might not be appropriate for the setting,” said Hedges of the poem, which eventually reveals the character made the mistake of drinking from the stream. He must have been talented even then, because he got a gig delivering poems at the restaurant. Hedges is one of the few guests I’ve had over the years who mostly works with material written by others. It’s his role in the process of preservation and education about a little-known art form that makes him a unique performer.

“I’ve written a few things over the years, but I’ve always been more drawn to the form of a recitation. Cowboy poetry in its earliest forms was an oral tradition, rather than passed through the page,” said Hedges, who went on to carve out his own style. “I was really blessed. I came under the influence of a whole group of people who participated in this, so I heard all kinds of styles and voices. People used their own personalities to bring poetry to the stage.”

You get the sense that there’s no cynicism in Hedges’ admiration for Western life. He’s not naive, and his album lists struggles legal, emotional, financial, and physical. But he values he espouses — hard work, strong character, acceptance, and respect for elders who show such traits — are rock solid. Hedges manages to avoid passing too much judgement a few thornier issues, including some serious womanising on “Eight Bucks and Change,” in which a the main character possibly earns redemption by working hard to tame horses. “Names” also explores the idea that a difficult to tame horse and a similarly tough man could make a special connection. Redemption, through action and emotional progress, always seems in reach. Long before social media and social security followed you everywhere, people used to go out West for a fresh start. That spirit is still present in the poems Hedges curated.

No character comes out looking better on the album than Tom Blasingame, a man legendary for keeping a strong work ethic into his nineties and his noble death. Sensing he was not long for the world, he dismounted his horse gently to avoid spooking him and laid down to rest. It’s described with stunning beauty. Blasingame’s virtues aren’t the least bit flashy: consistency, consideration, fidelity. To hear them celebrated with such tenderness is genuinely enough to soften a hardened heart. 

‘He’s really living his life for something other than the financial rewards of the job,” said Hedges. “Valuing freedom and spending your time doing the things you want to do and living out of doors. I admire people who choose to live that way. There’s a closeness to your creator in that lifestyle.”

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with Andy Hedges and the songs we discussed, starting with The Westerner, which sets out some fairly progressive values to be enforced in a rather conservative way. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live alternate Wednesdays at 8am on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://andyhedges.com for more. Andy also has a podcast, interviewing poets, musicians, and other figures associated with cowboy life. Check that out at https://andyhedges.com/cowboy-crossroads.

With You is not the first album I’ve ever listened to gushing about the magic of becoming a parent.“Tracing my finger on the soft of your ear/your breath relaxing into mine/you arrived, now I sing, a broken harmony/how slow, how fast do these days go by?” Courtney Hartman sings about her daughter Temple on “Honey, Honey.” The deep imprint such a simple action left on her is clear and well put.

I’m not trying to downplay the impact of such themes; just because many women (and some men) have expressed them to music before doesn’t make them any less heartwarming or worthy. But what makes With You so interesting and relatable is the quality and quantity of the questions Hartman has about the whole process, and the insecurities she’s unafraid to address. She is somehow able to acknowledge that there are things she knows, things she can’t know, and that sometimes they can be the same thing at the same time. “I’ll know you then like I know you now/it’s all a mystery still to me/we’re growing,” she sings on “Growing,” a song set when Temple was still in her womb. In harbouring and then nurturing a child, there’s an innate familiarity. Yet as time goes on, both mother and child change, child especially. She will grow, learn to walk, talk, make friends, start absorbing ideas from the outside world. The change and mystery will be constant, just as the knowing will.  

Hartman’s focus on the unknown proves compelling throughout. “To Carry You,” toward the end of the album, is a breathtaking expression of insecurity on the same subject. Hartman repeatedly asks if she’ll ever know what it truly means to be a mother.

“It’s not really a question you can ask, so you wonder. That song more than any other has made me cry while singing it, just because that question can sometimes feel challenging and th love feels really deep,” said Hartman. “More often than not, I don’t really feel adequate. That’s a thin place in me.”

It was a sentence that I simultaneously completely understood and yet made me want to jump in and defend Hartman, even though she’s the one who said it.

Hartman is an intelligent person with the strength and tenderness to put her heart on display for anyone who listens and the tenacity to tour multiple continents playing music. Of course she can raise a child. And yet, parenthood seems so daunting. A child is a piece of your heart that’s walking around outside you, my parents explained to me growing up, and that can be stressful. You can’t possibly be there to protect them from everything. It’s also a tremendous expenditure of energy both before and after pregnancy. First your body transforms, then your life.

“We’re often told we can take it all on, but the reality is that we’re humans which means that we’re limited,” said Hartman. “But what I’ve sensed is a clarity of what is important and what I can shed.” 

A career of touring is one of those things being shed, at least for the foreseeable future. Hartman, a guitar player regularly named as one of the most accomplished in bluegrass when she came on the scene, is now focused on local functions. She’s raising her daughter and has another child on the way. Still, she certainly has things she’d like to achieve.

“I feel really good when I’m doing things and checking lists off. So there are a lot of things about me personally that grates up against the presence and pace of a small child,” said Hartman. “Even now watching my daughter, who is almost three, try to put her shoes on, my instinct is to rush it along. But the practice of continuing to do that work of staying present and slow down, it’s a struggle for me. But it’s an important thing for me to struggle with, I think.”

Not being on the road is a challenge for a musician, but she’s still managing to write and create.

“I think the music industry wants us to think that the only way we can continue creating is if we’re on the road all the time. So I’ve had some reckoning to do with my own desires,” said Hartman. “It’s actually impossible with the way that social media works in our minds to not compare our lives to other people. Learning contentment is a superpower, not one I’ve fully tapped into.”

Hartman repeatedly put her insecurities and perceived weaknesses out there. When discussing performing on piano and fiddle in her community, she said she was nervous. 

“The tiniest new thing and all of a sudden I have my own little freak outs,” said Hartman. “But it’s good. Then you do it and you feel good and it’s important.”

Hartman noted and appreciated her growth throughout our discussion, so I asked if she had come any closer to knowing what it means to be a mother. 

“Slightly,” she said. “But the question grows. It balloons and changing. Because we’re always changing.”

Elsewhere on the album, Hartman notably takes the time to thank the women in her life who assisted her in the months described.

Didn’t you give the soothing of a mother?/How did you know just what to say?, Hartman sings of her midwife in “Companion.” “No one needs mothering/like a woman in the summer days of mothering,” she sings in “Like A Woman,” referencing her own mother as a special source of advice. It’s an aspect of new parenthood that’s rarely explored on these concept albums, let alone on multiple tracks.

“Motherhood is an experience of womanhood, but it’s only one facet of womanhood. I wanted this song to speak even more broadly to how we as a sisterhood support one another and show up for one another,” said Hartman. “I was almost startled for the desire that I had for mothering as I became a mother. That feeling is familiar. Maybe it happens to both parents, that sense of ‘golly I need guidance.’ But I think there is an innate need for that extra care.”

She expressed gratitude and awe at her own mother.

“My mom’s pretty amazing. I have nine siblings and so she’s experienced birth and all that comes with it ten times, which totally blows my mind,” said Hartman. “There’s a lot that I can talk to my own mom about, which is such a gift. I don’t take that lightly.”

Our discussion was interrupted, quite appropriately given the subject matter, by Temple walking in asking to watch Mr. Rogers. She’s an imaginative child who wanted to pretend to ski. And she’s certainly Hartman’s child, taking interest in the mandolin at a music event.

“Ultimately I want her to love what she is curious about and nurture her in that direction,” said Hartman, who is admittedly helping to foster Temple’s interest in music. “Mostly I’ll sing to her. Some of them are little songs I’ve written or songs my mom used to sing to us. Music is good. I want this to be part of her life.”

It was that desire that helped Hartman grow past an insecurity I never would’ve guessed the Grammy nominee felt. 

“My husband and I didn’t used to play music around each other. There was this little insecurity and ego thing,” said Hartman “I didn’t just sing around the house. When Temple was born, it hit me: Am I going to let my own pride and insecurities keep me from sharing music from her in just an every day way?”

Before our conversation ended, I could hear Temple playing some kind of small piano in the background. It would seem as though the strategy is working.

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with Courtney Hartman and the songs we discussed, starting with “Like A Woman,” which gives special thanks to the sisterhood supporting new mothers. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live alternate Wednesdays at 8am on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://www.courtneyhartman.com for more.

“My attitude towards healing is that it’s never done. There’s no such thing as healed,” said Laura Burhenn, lead singer and songwriter for the Mynabirds in one of the most emotional Country Pocket interviews I’ve recorded over more than a decade on air.

There’s a very crucial distinction between Burhenn saying that healing can’t be finished and that healing isn’t possible. It’s Okay To Go Back If You Keep Moving Forward is a testament to her belief in the possibility of healing, even at the cost of wading back through the darkness and pain. It’s actually so important and so constantly ongoing that she has no choice but to. Given what Burhenn has to say on this masterpiece of grief and evolution, it seems insane to ever ‘go back’ to the sources of her pain. And yet, it’s in the exploration of those terrible feelings that she’s able to land somewhere much closer to happy by the end of this saga. 

Moving forward with deep trauma is like trying to move against a ferocious gravity pulling you back toward the worst moments of your life. In a move straight out of a NASA mission, Burhenn uses this gravity as a slingshot. It’s a high risk manoeuvre that only propels her to where she’s trying to go by circling the rim of a black hole. It’s bleak, but successful. This is not an album for the faint of heart, but it’s absolutely for anyone who’s been shattered. 

“I’m as fragile as fragile can be/I’ve been torn at the seams,” Burhenn sings on Velveteen. She describes her state well on the first two tracks, though the specificity of feeling doesn’t do much in the way of revealing what happened to her. “Ramona, Patron Saint of Silence,” will immediately answer that question for anyone who’s ever been a victim of a predator. “Did you worry about the worlds you’d incinerate with the things that you’d say?” Burhenn sings on that track. Now we’re getting somewhere.

“In survival mode, we have the four Fs: flight, fight, freeze, or fawn. Silence is a sort of freezing that we do and it keeps us safe,” said Burhenn. “In that space, I think I realised I stopped writing because I had encountered a big trauma in my life and I needed to stay frozen for a while to be able to survive. Ultimately, the song is a thank you letter to whatever force protects us while we heal. Also, it’s a letter of gratitude to the power of our voice and the worlds we could destroy when we are ready to speak out.”

Speak out Burhenn does. She doesn’t name the source of her pain, but she paints him as successful in the music industry with a perverse appetite. “Tell me how does she taste?/I know how you like your meat/Fresh as a daisy,” she sings on “Drinking Song,” one of the darkest, most stomach turning tracks I’ve ever empathised with. Burhenn was already taking risks describing assault in such raw terms. But the anger, jealousy, and initial lack of empathy she displays toward what is clearly a fellow victim pushes this track into heart-stopping territory. “Can you do her a solid?/One thing I wish you’d done for me/Please make it bleed,” Burhenn sings, letting all those emotions out at the same time as wishing her own scars would be more visible and easily understood. There’s a reason Burhenn sat on this song for as long as she did. These are hard words to think and impossible to unspeak.

“I wrote it during the Me Too era. I like many people became very aware of abuse and trauma that I had suffered and witnessed. There was a real reconning,” said Burhenn. “I wrote that song and I didn’t know what to do with it. I was so disgusted by that song, I was so disgusted by the feelings that were coming up inside of me. It was something I was witnessing across the music industry. A younger and younger person keeps getting ushered in and I know what that exchange looks like. I know personally that it wasn’t great. Often times, it wasn’t consensual. I sang that song out of so much anger that I didn’t know what to do with it.”

That’s the ‘going back’ part of the album title. Dancing on the edge of that black hole, teardrops being sucked in, barely believing there’s a way out. That’s the years of silence being broken with the most blood curdling scream. 

“There’s just this energy in this world of people taking and extracting whatever they want,” said Burhenn “I can’t abide this anymore.” 

It’s okay if you barely made it this far. Burhenn created powerful medicine with this release, but not all medicine cures all wounds. The good news is that the rest is moving forward. Crucially, “Drinking Song” puts that on display before it ends. The last refrain tries desperately to take those words back. 

“Maybe if this happens to someone else, I’ll feel less alone and we can commiserate over it,” Burhenn started, describing it as a horrible thought. 

“I don’t want anyone to experience this hell,” she finished.

“Allowing both that original thought and that more evolved, more healed thought to exist together in that song was important. It’s not neat, it’s not tidy what people experience when they’re dealing with abuse, when they’re healing,” said Burhenn. “I think part of the healing process is allowing the darkest thoughts to bubble up and get free. I think if I can say it out loud, hopefully anyone who hears it will feel less alone.” 

Once the darkest thoughts came free, lighter ones followed. Burhenn is a Buddhist and early on in our conversation mentioned the core belief of “be the change you want to see.”

“I think that we are all operating from some place of trauma, and the more we can look that in the eye and work to heal that within ourselves, I think we heal the whole world,” said Burhenn. She described wanting to write this album from a collective voice. She cited Maya Angelou, another victim of abuse who chose to remain silent for years before putting extraordinary words to the page.

“I think there’s this lineage of voice throughout human history and I feel like that’s part of what I’m singing about,” said Burhenn. “What does it sound like when people who have been oppressed and repressed finally recognise their own worth and speak up for themselves?” 

Two strains have emerged in Burhenn’s thinking. The first is best described in “Ramona, Patron Saint of Silence,” when she embodies a volcano: “there’s wisdom in the fire/and some things need to burn.”

“I struggle with what it means to be a force of peace and love in the world and the truth of the matter is that some things need to be destroyed,” said Burhenn. “Destroying the old world to make way for the new one is also an act of love.”

Burhenn sees this happening even today, in the partial release of the Epstein files and the slow movement toward justice for at least some of the abusers. She also sees a lot more systems that need to burn. Yet Burhenn doesn’t want to see people destroyed, even the bad ones. Being the change she wants to see means loving. Loving means showing kindness to people who may not deserve it at the time – or possibly ever. 

“I also wish for all the abusers to heal,” said Burhenn. “The best thing you can do when faced with an abuser is stop their abuse. Not only are they hurting other people, they’re hurting themselves too. If you come from a place from deep love and forgiveness, that’s what you want.” 

That extends to participants some systems creating a lot of trauma at the very moment. Burhenn describes her philosophy as being focused on comforting those who are hurting, as opposed to just finding a way to get through pain.

“When your outrage is rooted in love, you cannot fail,” said Burhenn. “Be they an ICE agent or a racist asshole, I fully believe that their position comes from fear and ignorance. When I come face to face with that energy, I have to be courageous and full of love.”

“We won’t surrender a thing/by disarming,” Burhenn sings on “Disarm,” a track toward the end of the album.

“It’s not that we don’t choose to fight, it’s that we choose to do it differently,” said Burhenn. “I’m here for peace, I’m not going to roll over. I’m going to take the gun out of the person’s hand so they can’t hurt anybody else.”

It’s Okay To Go Back If You Keep Moving Forward ends on a very hopeful note. “LA Rain” describes a loving embrace, a person who has become a safe place to hide. Burhenn seems to genuinely have found peace in her personal life and is convinced we might yet find it on a larger scale as well.

“Hope has clawed through some heavy shit to get to the other side,” said Burhenn, quoting something she saw online. “I think that same thing about love. Love protects the people we care about and the vulnerable.”

Systemic abuse truly animates Burhenn. She’s active on social media, posting her thoughts about healing and her opposition to what the current administration, led by an individual who has been found liable in a court of law for the type of abuse described in “Drinking Song.” Having already faced it up close, Burhenn doesn’t seem daunted by the moment.

“We’re in the thick of it,” she admitted. “But we are going to get those assholes out of power. This moment is terrible and temporary.” 

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with Laura Burhenn of The Mynabirds and the songs we discussed, starting with Ramona, Patron Saint of Silence, which covers Burhenn’s absence from the songwriting world. The interview, easily the most tearful I’ve ever conducted, begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live alternate Wednesdays at 8am on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://www.themynabirds.org for more.

During our conversation, Sarah Morris referred to herself as a “feelings-helper-haver.” It’s a job description far too informally worded to align with therapist, but it’s not an entirely separate field. Morris is a songwriter, one who hones in on specifics and thoroughly explores emotions and patterns of thinking in great detail even if she doesn’t focus as much on the events behind them. As perhaps the world’s first self appointed feelings-helper-haver, Morris believes in capturing her precise experiences in order to reach others.

“If it’s coming up for me as a person, chances are it’s coming up for someone else and I’ll be able to more accurately serve them as a songwriter,” said Morris of her bursts of catharsis. “I want to be able to point that out to others who I love and sometimes I need that pointed out to me.”

Say Yes is an odyssey that encourages embracing love. It digs into anxieties and bitter breakups while simultaneously chasing the high of something special and defending the idea that it’s all worth it. Morris achieves that feat with exceptional lyrics and an album that feels dreamy, drifting on her high register and steadfast tendency to return to optimism. This isn’t the album to listen to in order to close a difficult chapter, but it would have to be among my top picks to have on while beginning to write a new one. 

The journey more or less begins with Morris seeing someone “Glow.” “There’s something about you lately/everybody’s saying there’s an easy peaceful way you move now/just like sun on water,” she sings, in awe of someone who is in the right place for themself. It’s heartening to hear a song that celebrates someone else’s happiness. In the context of the album, “Glow” starts Morris on a journey of healing, wanting what her friend has but without a hint of bitterness. 

“That song has a bit of envy in it but it’s also celebration. I wrote it around my birthday and I was not feeling particularly glowy myself, but it sure makes me happy to look over and see someone else killing it,” said Morris.“When someone’s really rooted in their awesomeness, they’re not even showing it off because they don’t have to. They can’t help but glow. If you surround yourself with people who are in that state it’s kind of contagious. So go by some glowy folk and celebrate them.”

As a spark for change, “Glow” is a warm but small one. Morris admits more probably needs to happen to shake someone out of a rut. 

“It really takes us a lot to finally make that move out of a situation,” she said. “As humans we are pretty willing to stay in things that don’t serve us well because it’s a lot of work to leave.”

Say Yes does not shy away from the fact that love can turn into something that doesn’t serve us. “The next thing I did was let out a howl/a full on scream leaving my mouth/you could say, you could say/a lot about a woman in her coming apart,” Morris sings on “Hard on a Heart.” The moment comes after a divorce. There’s neither celebration nor defeat here, just release.

“I thought about how it would feel to have a full catharthis of a moment, but in the back of your mind know this isn’t necessarily going to last,” said Morris. “There will be more complex follow up, but the fun of singing “Hard on a Heart” and tapping into that character is that for just a minute, she’s going with the purity of getting out of it. We’re supposed to feel our feelings.”

When it comes time to regain her glow, Morris arrives back at love. It doesn’t seem to be for lack of trying to find a safer place to rest her head. “I’ve scanned the wisdom of the ages/I have searched the stars above/and mostly found some variation of yes/the good stuff, the good stuff, love,” she sings on “Love.” 

“The One I Choose” is the standout of a very strong album for both its unusual concept and perfect plot twist. Morris essentially starts this song looking for the most ethical way to leave someone. She wants to slip out the back door, perhaps say it face to face, but anything to make a selfish act as painless as possible. “That’s the one I choose,” she sings of this hypothetical mercy. Perhaps it’s already obvious at this point, but there’s an awful lot of care in this relationship. So when Morris ultimately decides choosing to stay, it’s both hard won and fully rationalised. The fantasy fades into an even more satisfying reality. 

“I’m a mom. I had young kids at the time,” Morris explained. “Even if I would never ever, ever, ever leave, it’s still pretty normal to have those daydreams to mentally escape. But the truth is you’re never going to.”

Her thought experiment might end with stasis, but it’s still transformative. A listener will hear what it’s like to almost accidentally take stock of everything and come to appreciate it more. They’ll get a fuller sense of Morris’ anxieties and values. And perhaps they’ll start thinking a little bit about their own reasons for not escaping, even if there is a part of them that wants to.

“Two things could be true, and ultimately I think this person lands on the truest,” said Morris.

Oddly enough, I feel inclined to explain Morris’ most powerful idea with a quote from Winston Churchill: “Indeed it has been said that democracy is the worst form of Government except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time.” Being single and explorations of freedom may have provided that moment of catharsis throughout the album, but none of it beats that simple and elegant concept people keep making their way toward. 

“The stars are back/and I for one refuse to take them for granted” Morris sings later on in the album. Love is “light cutting through the deep black,” even if it seems to be the very thing capable of stranding someone out there in the first place. 

Though the album contains 10 tracks, I would have stopped at 8. “Some Of That Is True” feels like the natural conclusion for this story. “The details they don’t matter now/so I paint them however I choose,” Morris sings. This time, she’s driving off into the sunset with a loved one. That fantasy escape is “somewhere only we know” rather than a life alone. The dreamer we heard earlier on exploring a way out is using that same imagination to make a good situation better. She’s softened but hasn’t lost what defines her. I can certainly feel her settling into an easy glow. 

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with Sarah Morris and the songs we discussed, starting with Hard on a Heart, which opens in the middle of a breakdown. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live alternate Wednesdays at 8am on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://sarahmorrismusic.com for more.

It is not easy to come to terms with deep wounds. On “Tango,” Jo Fuller describes a difficult relationship where she felt doubted. 

“This person just made me feel lesser than,” said Fuller. “It was complex in that they tried to disguise that view of me, or maybe they didn’t want to have that view of me but they did. But I could just feel it.”

Not surprisingly, Fuller was never able to get an apology. That often isn’t something that easily springs forth from people who have disappointed us in the first place. But if that result isn’t particularly remarkable, Fuller’s success in achieving closure is. She realized that instead of confronting someone else, she needed to look inward and confront her emotions and her role in the situation. If that sounds like someone beating themself up, it’s not. “Own your hand and I’ll own mine,” she sings, stating “it takes two to tango.”

It’s the nuance in Fuller’s exploration of emotion that makes Wood of the Grain such an impressive and mature debut. 

“I needed to see how I was participating in letting them have such a big impact on my emotional world” said Fuller. “That’s enough for me. Realizing my role because it takes two to tango. That was all the closure I wound up needing.”

Fuller approaches herself and her emotions in many ways on the album. Sometimes, like on “Paper Tiger,” a direct confrontation of a thought pattern is needed. It’s the anthem of a woman who is beyond being weighed down by negative

“Can I stalk the streets of my mind? Can I begin to make conversation with the parts of myself that I’m scared of?” asked Fuller, referring to her lyrics. “Maybe these are parts of myself or recurring thoughts and feelings that I can come to know.” 

It’s that idea that proved to be the most powerful on her album. Fuller said she struggles with anxiety but I had enough experience with the subject that I didn’t need much of an explanation on how that feels. Admitting that our world is a bit on fire right now, Fuller didn’t set out to eradicate the feeling. Instead she practiced setting boundaries within herself.

“You can give yourself permission that it’s right and it’s rational and you can feel it,” said Fuller. “And you can also give yourself permission that if it feels debilitating, that there are also steps to take that might alleviate the amount to which you’re feeling that.” 

“Welcome to the Guest House, It’s the Best House” is a fresh application of a centuries old idea, one featured in a Rumi poem. “Come sit with me dear,” Fuller sings, inviting her emotions in for something between a heartfelt conversation and a negotiation. She describes the process as having made her emotions seem whole and tangible for the first time. “I’m sorry darling/I didn’t know it was okay to feel this way,” she sings. 

“There’s a lot of sadness for the way I have historically related to these feelings so I apologize,” said Fuller, meaning she apologized to her feelings. “I don’t want to feel anxiety. I don’t want to feel fear. I don’t want to feel loneliness. Contrary to that initial impulse to push away, it’s an invitation.” 

Wood of the Grain is an album about “development in context,” Fuller says, a recognition of pain and a path forward outlined by “the wisdom of bygone thinkers.” 

“The things that we consider broken and non ideal about ourselves. They’re not just random flaws, they are things that developed in response to something in our context. They’re actually worthing of our understanding or curiosity. They’re adaptations,” said Fuller. “How pervasive that ‘I’m broken, I’m fundamentally flawed’ feeling is in our culture is a product of how quickly we pathologize something instead of getting curious about something, honoring it. It doesn’t mean we have to believe it. It doesn’t have to rule our lives. It sure as hell is not brokenness.” 

The album ends on a satisfying and beautiful note, a love letter to those who supported her through the struggle.

“It’s provided me with the soil, the fertile ground of being able to get through some really hard things,” Fuller said of the feeling of community around her. “A lot of this album is aspirational but it’s becoming reality for me. I struggle with anxiety but I’m doing it. It’s pretty exciting what it’s making space for in my life, including exploring my relationship to God and a higher power.” 

Pixar has proven that with bright colors and a smart script, personifying emotions can be extremely effective. I’m not optimistic we get anything close to this mature and impactful for “Inside Out 3.” For those wishing for a version of the franchise aimed at adults, Wood of the Grain will more than do. 

If you’re seeing this before Friday, only our partial episode with Jo Fuller is available as some of her music remains unreleased. For now, enjoy one song and Jo’s music choice along with her interview. Later we will add two more songs. Check out our guest at https://www.jo-fuller.com/ and my radio station at https://www.wusb.fm/

As Donald Trump transforms America with overwhelming backing from the Evangelical population, a new more tolerant voice in Christianity is gaining strength. Pope Leo is the most visible example, regularly preaching kindness toward immigrants and respect for democratic norms. As churches have been stormed by ICE, clergy are trying to preserve their sanctuaries. Reverends David Black and Jorge Bautista were shot in the face with chemical irritants while protesting ICE but continue to speak out. James Talrico, a minister himself, is running for Senate in Texas on a platform of biblical love. It’s not quite the majority of Christians in America, but their voices are growing louder and the progressive teachings of Jesus are seeing more press coverage than at any time in recent history. 

My latest guest, John Francis O’Mara, is both a musician and Episcopal priest. He’s been spreading that progressive message through rural Virginia to congregations that at times walk out on his homilies. His album features an image of a brown Mary on the cover. The “Forbidden Hymns” he writes are spiritual battle cries with a political edge.

“The zeitgeist and the horror and the xenophobia and the brutality and the cruelty largely is coming from a MAGA Christian white nationalist agenda,” said O’Mara. “What it’s doing for me is putting in stark terms as never before that my role as a Christian and a priest is to embody and do the things that demonstrate that there’s another kind of expression of Christian faith and justice. There’s another world full of people who are deeply troubled by what’s going on and moved to action. I’m one of those kind.”

“Walking in Babylon” captures the surreal feeling of being a Christian in a nation that justifies killing and persecution in the name of the Lord. Meanwhile, he’s focusing on building community and supporting the marginalized. “In the shadow where the empire spreads/Me and my brothers are breaking bread/It’s blue and white, but I’m seeing red/Democracy’, is that what you said?” O’Mara sings. 

“It’s making my job as a person who believes in justice and empathy and the dignity of every human person, the thing that Jesus and spiritual people have been proponents of, it makes my job easier in that I’m called to not cower,” said O’Mara. 

Is O’Mara a bit radical for a priest? Perhaps. Jesus was very much a radical in his time. O’Mara’s alarm at the situation in America and his desire to fight it is building. “There’s a holy fire inside of me/Hotter than the barrel of your gun,” sings O’Mara on “Mighty Power.” He sounds like a man ready to flip some tables.

“I’m called to be bold,” said O’Mara. “This is a time when people like myself who have a claim of believing the red letters, this novel idea that maybe he meant what he said, this is a time for us to be courageous.”

He’s not at all surprised that the administration is taking aim at protesters and creatives. 

“They have always feared the artists, especially the artists who have convictions and are willing to die for them,” said O’Mara. “More and more, I’m not pulling any punches. I believe that a better world is possible.” 

The album is much more than a collection of protest songs. O’Mara prays and converses with holy figures including the Blessed Mary. He laments the state of things and tries to draw strength from their spiritual relationship.

“I was born on the feast day of St. Juan Diego. He’s the Aztec peasant farmer who received the vision of Our Lady of Guadalupe, so I have a deep affinity for her,” said O’Mara. “Mary is an archetype of the divine feminine. Protector, nurturer, life giver, the womb of creativity. That feminine presence in our spirituality, our narratives, in our hierarchy, it’s still so unbalanced.”

O’Mara is trying hard to rebalance. He doesn’t have a set parish and often visits other churches that don’t have full time priests. He offers his congregants stern words and stands up for his principles. When a church invited him to lead a service that featured military fight songs, he told them to change the program or find someone else to preach it. 

“Celebrating the machines and mechanism of war is different than honoring soldiers, especially wounded soldiers or families of soldiers who died,” said O’Mara “I want to live in a world someday, and I believe it’s possible, that we won’t need those fight songs and we won’t have to go to funerals of dead soldiers because war will be no more. I firmly believe that’s possible. I have to. That’s the promise of the gospel: to let it be on Earth as it is in heaven.” 

O’Mara finds himself in a difficult position trying to share a different interpretation of the gospel than most American protestants are familiar with. At a time when many evangelical faith leaders openly support and even lay hands on Trump, O’Mara is trying to draw attention back to basics like ‘do unto others.’ 

“The heart of the gospel is love. It’s a universal and unconditional love,” said O’Mara. “And that includes the people in the pews. It requires of everyone to extend that same unconditional love, especially to those that are other than them.”

There are calls to action on forbidden hymns, at times quite explicit.

“Do you have the courage to share what you’ve been given?” sings O’Mara on “No One Gets Out Of Here Alive.”

“It’s an invitation to people listening to my record to take this shit personally,” said O’Mara. “It’s the beginning of the end of any society when the pain of others doesn’t register with the whole.”

Perhaps my presence in Europe inspired O’Mara to speak on the topic of emigrating, but he brought it up unprompted.

“I thought about leaving. My family got here two generations ago from Ireland. Sometimes when I have that imaginary or not so imaginary conversation with my ancestors, I imagine them assuring me that it’s okay to come home,” said O’Mara. “But at the same time, the disenfranchised and disinherited people of America, those are my allies, those are my kin. My intention is to make choices about who I spend my time with and my money for.” 

An idealist, O’Mara believes in bringing messages of anti-racism into even parishes that might be hostile to it. He’s perfectly content to preach through walkouts or groans and questions whether some congregants understand that coming to church is about more than spiritual affirmation and checking an attendance box. 

“I’m glad you’re in the building, but that’s not why you’re here,” said O’Mara, recounting the scenario. “We’re here to make a better world a reality.”

Still, O’Mara is at his most powerful when he’s earnestly praying for a better tomorrow on “Let It Be So.” It’s not as pointed a song, but it gets to the heart of his beliefs: “Yes, another world will come/another world, I swear/Where the wars we’ve been wagin’ for ages and ages/Will finally refrain to an end,” he sings. 

It’s this kind of faith, whether in God or the constitution, that is required to stand up in times when the price for speaking out is so heavy. O’Mara seems like he’ll be particularly difficult to silence. Beyond being determined to be bold, O’Mara seems ready for the new role of progressive spiritual warrior.

“I want to have eloquent anger,” said O’Mara. “I want to have decisive outrage and an impatience with injustice.” 

Above is the full episode as aired on WUSB’s Country Pocket, including both my interview with John Francis O’Mara and the songs we discussed, starting with “Walking In Babylon,” which finds our society in a state of biblical disrepair. The interview begins with the second video in the playlist. You can hear the show live alternate Wednesdays at 8am on WUSB 90.1 FM or check the blog to watch it as a YouTube playlist. Visit http://www.WUSB.fm and https://johnfrancisomara.com for more.