Let Me Explain What Holy-Tired is to Me
I can do it with music. I can do it with writing. I play until my fingers hurt, and far beyond. I write until I realize the sun is setting, I’ve barely eaten all day and haven’t had a breath of outside air.
I can lead and teach and talk and coach all day long all week and forever without stopping, but, only, only, only if we are working on essential, revolutionary, deep, important things.
It’s “work” I care most about whether I try to or not. I’m drawn to diving into the icy cold, sacred-unknown and trying to swim across.
I look forward to exploring the sacred-creative of wacky, wild, turbulent, new soundscapes, trying to shape the raw vibrations into pleasing harmony. I’m ready to try to say and write whatever I possibly can that might pierce the gauzy barrier into sacred truth.
And the energy. What little energy I have. What grand and jumpy feelings. I’m ready to roll it out as thin as it goes until I have expressed to just about every edge and I am limp from sacred-tiredness.
This is a day well done. This is adventure. And, then, you arrive, well-won and worn out, at the still and gentle mouth beyond the whirling confluence of creativity, truth, and passionate intention. This moment is spacious and dimming.
You are soft and well-expressed. This is holy-tired.