I’m sitting in a lawn chair outside David Arms gallery in Leiper's Fork, a funky village about 30 minutes south of Nashville with more antique shops and private art galleries than people. The vibe's a little one-percenty, what with Justin Timberlake and Chris Stapleton living just down the road, but the scenery's postcard worthy - rolling hills dotted with Oak, dogwood and maple trees - and I often stop through town when I'm feeling a great batch of songs are just out of reach. There's a calming stillness here.
Fortunately, there're options in Leiper's Fork other than spending a thousand dollars on luggage, and I'm enjoying a cheeseburger from Puckett’s Grocery on Main Street and chuckling, having heard a Duck Dynasty-looking fifty-something declare "I’m gonna call the Doobie Brothers gospel just so we can play their music on a Sunday." The fireflies are emerging. They’re only active between twilight and dusk, and the entire town's suddenly alive in luminescence, an undulating sea of soft flickering neon. It’s hypnotic, and I find myself counting my breaths up to ten, inhaling and exhaling slowly, gently meditating in the semidarkness.
I didn't write a song today, didn't touch a guitar, but in this moment, under a blushing celestial canopy, ensconced in the ebb and flow of mother nature, I'm right were I need to be, and I feel my creativity slowly waking up from its deep sleep.