There’s a strange unsettling calm that comes right before going into the studio to make a record. Usually, I’m not gigging much at this point. I’m not booking shows or even writing songs. If anything I’m just playing the material I plan to record, or more likely, doing nothing important at all, but worrying about how it will all go down. Do I really like the songs? The arrangements? Is this the right studio or instrumentation? Should I quit and start selling real estate? What am I doing with my life?
I recently heard an accomplished poet say that he had to give everything in his life to poetry, including the idea of giving everything in his life to poetry.
And as I type this, I can see a robin standing in the dirt path in my backyard. Through the glass door a blue-grey sky is wetting the trees and unmowed grass. The blade of a table-saw next door is slicing through the silence. And somewhere out there, you are reading these words on a screen. You, with your own sounds. Your own worries, sleeping behind hopes and chatter.
There are places we all avoid, and thing that seem too great to give — the knot in my stomach and tension in my shoulders. Rain is now playing a delicate rhythm on the roof and a sparrow whistles from a treetop somewhere.
And I could swear I hear this moment whisper, “stay here for now. Stay right here. Right…here”