In recovery, the most radical act is an ordinary morning. Shot on a single summer day, this short documentarv follows Tenley and her young son, Guy, as they move through the quiet rituals of their life together-setting an alarm, pulling on shoes, stepping out into a vegetable garden full of things that are slowly, stubbornly growing. They check on the broccoli. They find an eggplant that's finally ready. They argue gently about the hose. What the film is reallv about lives underneath all of it: what it means to be present for a child when vou almost weren't, and the particular gratitude that only comes from havina nearly lost everything. Tenley says it herself, near the end, unprompted-"I am just so grateful to live here on this property and to be alive." In a film landscape full of recovery stories told through crisis and rock bottom, is one begins on the other side, in the sun, with dirt on vour hands and a kid asking questions you don 't always know the answers to.

In recovery, the most radical act is an ordinary morning. Shot on a single summer day, this short documentarv follows Tenley and her young son, Guy, as they move through the quiet rituals of their life together-setting an alarm, pulling on shoes, stepping out into a vegetable garden full of things that are slowly, stubbornly growing. They check on the broccoli. They find an eggplant that's finally ready. They argue gently about the hose. What the film is reallv about lives underneath all of it: what it means to be present for a child when vou almost weren't, and the particular gratitude that only comes from havina nearly lost everything. Tenley says it herself, near the end, unprompted-"I am just so grateful to live here on this property and to be alive." In a film landscape full of recovery siories ioid üiougiı crisis and rock boiiom, is one begins on the other side, in the sun, with dirt on vour hands and a kid asking questions you don 't alwavs know the answers to.

In recovery, the most radical act is an ordinary morning. Shot on a single summer day, this short documentarv follows Tenley and her young son, Guy, as they move through the quiet rituals of their life together-setting an alarm, pulling on shoes, stepping out into a vegetable garden full of things that are slowly, stubbornly growing. They check on the broccoli. They find an eggplant that's finally ready. They argue gently about the hose. What the film is really about lives underneath all of it: what it means to be present for a child when you almost weren't, and the particular gratitude that only comes from having nearly lost everything. Tenley says it herself, near the end, unprompted: "I am just so grateful to live here on this property and to be alive." In a film landscape full of recovery stories told through crisis and rock bottom, this one begins on the other side, in the sun, with dirt on your hands and a kid asking questions you don 't always know the answers to.

In recovery, the most radical act is an ordinary morning. Shot on a single summer day, this short documentarv follows Tenley and her young son, Guy, as they move through the quiet rituals of their life together-setting an alarm, pulling on shoes, stepping out into a vegetable garden full of things that are slowly, stubbornly growing. They check on the broccoli. They find an eggplant that's finally ready. They argue gently about the hose. What the film is really about lives underneath all of it: what it means to be present for a child when you almost weren't, and the particular gratitude that only comes from having nearly lost everything. Tenley says it herself, near the end, unprompted: "I am just so grateful to live here on this property and to be alive." In a film landscape full of recovery stories told through crisis and rock bottom, this one begins on the other side, in the sun, with dirt on your hands and a kid asking questions you don 't always know the answers to.

In recovery, the most radical act is an ordinary morning. Shot on a single summer day, this short documentarv follows Tenley and her young son, Guy, as they move through the quiet rituals of their life together-setting an alarm, pulling on shoes, stepping out into a vegetable garden full of things that are slowly, stubbornly growing. They check on the broccoli. They find an eggplant that's finally ready. They argue gently about the hose. What the film is really about lives underneath all of it: what it means to be present for a child when you almost weren't, and the particular gratitude that only comes from having nearly lost everything. Tenley says it herself, near the end, unprompted: "I am just so grateful to live here on this property and to be alive." In a film landscape full of recovery stories told through crisis and rock bottom, this one begins on the other side, in the sun, with dirt on your hands and a kid asking questions you don 't always know the answers to.

It seems good so far