A warmth crept through me like honey as my grandmother's deep, rich voice threw the opening line of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot into her otherwise silent kitchen. Just like the women who came before her, she was doing the dishes, mopping the floors, and weaving her voice into a beautiful tapestry of sound. As I hoisted myself onto the counter, I tried to conjure my own kind of magic, and I felt the freedom of expressing myself, completely untethered to pressures of perfection. I don’t remember the first time I heard my grandmother sing, that was simply a fact of life for me - but I do remember this moment as the first time I felt the weight of her voice in my bones. Although I didn't fully have language for it at the time, I go back to this memory as a pivotal moment of understanding: creation, expression, and artful community are not an option in the human experience, but rather a necessity.