Hi, you. Happy underworld season 👻

Been thinking a lot about legacy lately. Maybe it’s the time of year — also I just watched Hamilton. Again. I love it. It asks the ultimate question: “Who will tell your story?”

Wrecks me every time.

If a memory is just a recollection, a summation based on someone else’s interpretation, how do we live a “good” life AND an authentic one? Who will cry with you, who will cry for you, and who won’t be crying at all?

Like the wailing women in antiquity, my modern-day griot spirit is not afraid to descend into the shadowlands and give voice to grief. It’s why I sing, it’s why I write. Not to “get it right,” but to get it honest.

I’m aware of the fact that, in this lifetime, I’m healing traditions and patterns that aren’t necessarily mine. Maybe you are too. We carry these imprints, these legacies, these hopes, these “sins” of those that have passed on — sometimes they’re a lot. I believe there’s a part of my spirit that is/was a wailing woman - a person to sit with you and hold you while you hurt.

Giving voice to a story, to celebrate and grieve for/with a person. It’s my superpower.

I began encountering death at a young age and found that there was something so powerful in music - it had a way of becoming the communal scream that was needed in times of great change or distress, even joy. Especially when “peopling” wasn’t the vibe du jour (for those in an isolation era, I see you).

Musical storytelling has been a part of my story even when I denied the calling (different post, different day). Music saves, it gives life. It translates the human condition. It’s also why I’m inspired by so many musical genres - it’s a different wail for a different mood.

So here I sit at the crossroads of my own authenticity - watching Hamilton and nursing this Halloween candy hangover (damn Skittles). The legacies I carry, intersecting with who I’ve been, who I am now, and who I’m becoming. It’s not always comfortable, but it’s honest. Thanks for joining me.

❤️ - cloie