Later, we found out she lives, miraculously, down the street from our manager, Bradshaw, so she began helping him help us. They cutely go hang flyers for our shows before we come to town, and even hang out together as friends from time to time.

When we get into town, Tara is volunteering at her mom’s non-profit’ pancake brunch event. Bradshaw tells us when and where it is, so, of course, we show up unannounced. She cries. We cry. It is lovely.

We tell her we will be in town for some time, recording, and that if she wants to be around, she is welcome to be. She comes with a deluge of instruments for us to play on the songs, including a marimba, which she studied formally.

I imagine marimba on every song.

Art-making is maybe as much about white-knuckling the wheel as it is about letting go. The balance is hard to find, but, more often than not these days, I find better art coming from the latter: letting things happen, taking ideas from the moment—“Dance,” the cowboys say to the clown who walks into the saloon before shooting their pistols at her feet.

I am learning that this dance is the best art I make.