SEVEN: "This is me, and these are my gifts."

In July 2023, I moved into a townhome on Havana Street in Denver with nothing but my gear in storage, my phone, and a quiet determination to make something new.

July 7, 2023. It’s almost 10 pm. I’m standing outside the townhome in Central Park, Denver, at the intersection of Havana and MLK. I’m waiting for my landlord to arrive with the keys to my new place. I can feel the promise in the air. A new space for me—a space I’ll fondly call Havana.

A few days later, I finish my first project: a custom version of “Let It Be,” with lyrics tailored for The Architect, who commissioned it. I haven’t yet retrieved my recording gear, so I sing into my iPhone and sweeten the audio on my laptop. When it’s done, I text it to him. Within hours, he calls—ecstatic. He urges me to post it inside the Collective, the online community built around his teachings.

So I do. I upload a still video and a short post about the song’s meaning: “Let Her Be,” The Architect’s take on what love really requires.

That night, I fall asleep in my new bed upstairs, the phone buzzing with comments from the Collective. The song is causing a stir. The Architect even pins it to the top of his personal profile.

Someone asks to post it to the group’s YouTube channel. After looking into the copyright risks, I decline. It’s not really mine—just my voice paired with McCartney’s chords.

I pivot. I write a new piece—same message, my own melody. I post it. Crickets. The likes vanish. The message doesn’t land without the familiar harmony. That hits hard: it’s the cover that matters. Not the essence. Not the authorship. The contrafact wins.

Still, I feel a spark—something awakening. I begin building the album I envisioned when I joined the Collective: Songs of Being. But then, another obstacle. After I retrieve my gear, I find out my high-end microphones buzz constantly. RF interference in Havana. I spend hours troubleshooting. Nothing works. A small heartbreak. It makes everything feel more fragile.

Later that month, I see a post from The Architect about This Thing Called You by Ernest Holmes. I DM him, curious. He calls and tells me how he recorded himself reading the italicized sections—and listens to that recording every day, sometimes more than once. That kind of discipline floors me. I see it in him. I glimpse it in myself.

He shares the file. It becomes my daily anchor. For ten months, I listen or read from Holmes every day. I copy the italicized chapters into my Notes app. Sometimes I shuffle them with Random.org. Sometimes I read one every hour. Sometimes I do the whole book in one sitting. That ritual frames everything.

Around the same time, I cut ties with two coaches I’d spent ten grand on—The Strategist and The Channel. I’ve read some not-so flattering reviews of their greedy business practices. I stop listening to their podcasts. Stop repeating their scripts in my head. They’re no longer my authority.

Corvo visits weekly for guitar lessons. I try to stay present, try not to worry about how things are going with them and their boyfriend.

Despite the audio issues, I love Havana. I love looking out my bedroom window at the clock tower by the Shiny Happy Car Wash. I love the east-facing windows, how they light up at sunrise.

I pay July and August’s rent with PayPal credit. I know the clock is ticking.

I need to make money. Soon.

Less than a month in, miracles start to happen. I begin teaching a former student again—I’ve just moved down the road from where I used to live. There’s a possibility of a solo guitar gig at a well-known Mexican restaurant. Corvo handed me that one; they were working there as typewriter poets with their boyfriend.

Another miracle: a former colleague reaches out. There’s a chance to teach at the community college again—a full courseload. Do I want it? Of course!

The job at the college, the gigs at the restaurant, the guitar student. I’ll be teaching again at the arts school soon. Every day, I stare at the note I put on my refrigerator—a quote. Something The Architect’s wife said during one of the Collective’s Zoom calls:
“This is me, and these are my gifts.”

As rough as the first part of 2023 was, this is a time for miracles. I’m starting to believe that the universe, God, or whatever you want to call it, has my back—and things will work out.

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