albums i listened to all the way through

posted this week and every week (10)

Apr 06, 2025

Recently, I’ve been starting my therapy sessions with the same sentence.

“Therapist, I am of two minds.”

On one hand, I am feeling what we’re all feeling—dread. There’s something so pervasive about how the world is going right now. We’re all trying to make some sense of it in any way we can, be it writing a song, going to a protest, donating to a good cause, or just being kind to a stranger.

For me, I am watching some of my favorite places on the earth burn from wildfires. This is after they just got back on their feet again after the thousand-year-flood. Appalachia has never been able to catch a break, but especially now in the midst of climate crisis and political upheaval.

On the other hand, I am feeling an emotion I’ve rarely allowed myself to feel—hope. I see it in so many things these days: good music, kind eyes, great art, and careful reflections from all the humans looking to make sense of their contradictory, patchwork lives like a large, multi-colored quilt. We sew the squares—our fears, our doubts, our needs, our loves, our meanderings—together to craft a story.

That’s what Appalachians have always done. I think it must be buried in our genetic code or something because for all our region has suffered, for all the world has tossed and turned, we still find ourselves reaching for the light in times of trouble.

My dad, despite being born to a Florida seamstress and New Jersey salesman in Miami, discovered this very thing while studying to become a middle school civics teacher at Appalachian State in the 60s. He told me once he didn’t see snow until he was 18-year-old, and from then on, all he wanted from life was to live in a cabin at the edge of the forest, existing annually through all four seasons and letting the Earth work its magic.

When my brother and I were young, he would drive us out of town to a little holler called Teas—to his cabin in the woods. Early on, he still had two dogs, Lady and Silver, and we’d run through the yard beside them. We’d spend hours exploring nature’s splendor alongside the intersection of our road and the Appalachian Trail.

My grandmother’s house was just down the adjacent gravel road a ways. Behind her cabin, there was a pond full of frogs, salamanders, fish, and their offspring. Bunnies would run scared the second they saw me coming. Deer droppings could always be seen there in the grass, indicative of all that existed there. We’d take day hikes and marvel at the majesty of Appalachia’s famous biodiversity—hickories, maples, dogwoods, and birch trees. I longed always to climb them and stare out over the larger landscape. If not for my clumsiness, I may have taken that opportunity more often.

When I was in grad school, I used to take walks daily through the arboretum just behind my apartment complex. I’d spend hours there, reading, thinking, and reflecting. I think back on that time and miss how close I was to a natural place. In my current neighborhood, the closest green space is fifteen blocks away. I’m ashamed to admit I rarely get up there, especially knowing my soul needs it.

While my home burns, I wonder why I am still in this city of man-made streets and sounds. I wonder why I left my rural home for an urban adventure. This past week gave me a pretty good answer.

I saw The Weather Station play the Music Hall of Williamsburg on Wednesday. It was easily the best concert I’ve ever witnessed (full essay on that coming this next week). Their music—characteristic of Toronto’s blend of ethereal, folky jazz—always sends me right back to my dad’s cabin. When I listen, I want to touch tree bark and feel the shifting earth give way beneath my feet. I want to breathe in fresh mountain air and walk my dad’s dogs along a stretch of gravel road. I want to skip stones and and swim in the lake at Hungry Mother State Park.

I want to hold both thoughts in my head at the same time. I want to recognize how my favorite place in the world is in dire need, while also appreciating how resilient it really is, how resilient it’s always been. But, still, Appalachia needs us to care for it. We need to be better stewards.

At another concert this past week, I overheard two guys discussing the fact that they were from Western North Carolina and lost so many things in the flood.

Incredibly, one of them was in a band and explained how this guy in Cary had a stage he was going to sell him. Something about how Helene destroyed their old stage to the point where it couldn’t be repaired and this kind soul was practically giving them this stage for free. I didn’t speak to either of them, but the exchange reminded me of my region’s willingness to give when they have and accept graciously when they have not. Southern Appalachian people exist everywhere in precious pockets.

I am always grateful to hear and see them when I do.

Thanks to Thomas Morra and steve for their incredible album recommendations.

Here are the albums I listened to all the way through this past week: