I’ve been teaching songwriting at a university this semester. It’s been a dream, my favorite job. I didn’t know what to do today. I felt I was supposed to be strong, or wise, or infallible, or grown-up, for the students, when I actually felt weak and numb and uncertain and childlike. I needn’t have worried. Six of us sat in class, some childlike on the floor, for two hours, first in silence, then sharing stories, tears, occasional laughter, and eventually, music. There was a permeability, the veil felt thin. Every song made me teary-eyed. The students showed such care, listening to and helping each other, sitting in proximity through discomfort. They talked about health care, their grandmothers, race and gender, world governments, women’s fashion, love, and the idea that community can be six people from different backgrounds meeting and talking about such things. So I witnessed a community forming. The music we played held great power, which seemed to come from collective vulnerability and a willingness to take emotional and social risks. I don’t know if that kind of power through art can become political power, but I think it can. I don’t know exactly what that will look like, and I know it will be tiring and difficult and not magical and very intentional and time-intensive, but I saw a bit of it today.