DAWN VIGIL: THE WEIGHT OF TEN THOUSAND MORNINGS
Wisdom isn't taken anywhere. It's what remains when you've been beaten.
Years ago, I wrote a poem about a Celtic warrior standing in morning mist.
Ancient symbols on his cloak. Battles quieted, but not forgotten. A sentinel waiting for what the new day might find. I didn’t analyze it when it came. I just wrote it down and let it be what it was.
That poem sat the way certain things sit - not forgotten, not finished. Present without demanding anything.
There is a kind of knowledge that only accumulates across a long time in the studio. It is not technique. It is not rank. It is not anything you can point at directly.
It is the weight of ten thousand mornings when you showed up anyway. It is the quiet of knowing what you are made of because you have tested it repeatedly, and it has held.
The warrior in that poem was always exactly that.
Recently, I pulled those words back down off the shelf. I wanted to see if they could hold weight in a different form. Not as an ancient myth, but grounded in the physical reality of a modern morning. The mist on the ridge. The coffee at the edge of the shop. The old blood moving quietly in the background.
We translated it into rhythm. We brought the gaze down from the sky and put the feet firmly on the ground.
This is the result.
(Listen to the track below)
