This world does not make space for black women to celebrate the totality of who we are.

So THIS – this poetic place, these craft conversations, this shared space, this communal gathering is about interrogating THAT.

Bending language and reinventing form and investigating the capacity of NOW

and testing emerging mediums and story to speak into the fractals of change happening in this moment.

How does the ever-shifting national conversation intersect with the private moments of metamorphoses happening in year four of the pandemic? And what does all of that actually mean for black women?

Mayday is the global call sign for distress. May_Day is International Workers Day to honor the struggles and gains made by workers and the labor movement. On the same day, kind folks leave anonymous baskets of flowers on doorsteps, farmers plant turnips, flowers are woven into leis, and people go barefoot to welcome in the new season.

Gather with us to pause and, “stop to smell the roses” [wink] as we recognize/rage/grieve/conjure the changing seasons: making space for the distress signals from our bodies while also honoring the enduring labor required to care for our chronically ill minds and bodies.