Alex Woodard - For the Sender: Love Is (Not a Feeling)

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Also by Alex Woodard

FOR THE SENDER

Four Letters. Twelve Songs. One Story.

The above title is available at your local bookstore,
or may be ordered by visiting:

Hay House USA: www.hayhouse.com
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Copyright 2014 by Alex Woodard

Published and distributed in the United States by: Hay House, Inc.: www.hayhouse.com Published and distributed in Australia by: Hay House Australia Pty. Ltd.: www.hayhouse.com.au Published and distributed in the United Kingdom by: Hay House UK, Ltd.: www.hayhouse.co.uk Published and distributed in the Republic of South Africa by: Hay House SA (Pty), Ltd.: www.hayhouse.co.za Distributed in Canada by: Raincoast Books: www.raincoast.com Published in India by: Hay House Publishers India: www.hayhouse.co.in

Book design: Nena Anderson Photo contributors: Alex Woodard, Caroline Woodham, Lee Sammartino, Dennis Anderson, Dan Hamilton, Scarlett Lewis, Patrick McClory Illustrations: Jordan Pundik

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise be copied for public or private useother than for fair use as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviewswithout prior written permission of the publisher.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013950841

Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-4019-4123-9

17 16 15 14 4 3 2 1
1st edition, February 2014

Printed in the United States of America

(music)
to play from the beginning It., da: from, capo: head.

So whens the next one?

The question came from behind me, where it hung in the air for a moment before trailing off into the emptying theater. I turned to see legendary songwriter Jack Temp-chin standing by himself in the middle of the worn-down wooden stage, looking into the curtains dark, folded corners for an answer. I smiled and went back to watching the last of the crowd trickle out the front doors until Molly Jenson took me by the arm and said she wanted to keep on doing whatever this was.

But what was it?

Wed just performed a concert of songs wed written about four moving, real-life letters Id received over the last couple of years. Most of the audience members were leaving the theater with an album of these songs, enclosed in a small book called For the Sender that Id had printed for the performance. Id woven my own journey through the letters and songs, and as the project slowly came together the result read like a book, sounded like an album, and, after tonights show, felt like a concert.

Up until that night, no one really knew what I was working on, not even the friends who had helped me write the songs. I wasnt sure myself at first, and when people would ask me Id run through the same questions in my mind: Is this a book? An album? A show about a book and album? All of the above?

All I knew was that I felt as if Id been holding this little bird in my hands, a sleeping ball of feather, waiting for the right time to spread her wings out in the world. And in front of two capacity crowds on that cold January night, I closed my eyes, opened my hands, and let her go, hoping she might fly.

She did fly, up through the aisle, out the dilapidated front doors of the theater, and into the clear winter sky, leaving Jack onstage wondering out loud what I was already thinking to myself: Whens the next one?

Our question would soon be answered by a woman whod been in the audience that night. But I didnt know this yet, so I packed up my guitar and left the theater, thinking this was probably the last time Id see that little bird.

The year unfolded with new beginnings, and among other firsts, I got a horse. I thought she was just a simple, quiet trail horse, one of hundreds that change hands every day. Id ridden her a couple of times and she seemed fine, but I didnt know as much as I thought I knew about horses. I found out later that she was the daughter of a two-time world champion and half sister to more champions than anyone who knew about these things could remember. And for an unfortunate reason I would soon discover, she was priced to sell.

My very first encounter with her should have sent me running for the hills, but she showed me something beautiful that day in a passing glance, and I took her home. Decisions based on passing glances arent without risk, and it wasnt long before I found myself late one afternoon midair between her back and the ground, where I lay for a few anxious moments wondering if I was going to walk again. Thats where our story begins.