I walk somewhat timidly into the Mandolin Cafe, a spacious and elegant coffee house in the heart of Tacoma. I don't know a soul in the place and have no idea what to expect when I walk through the doors. With these smallish venues I frequent, the reception I get when I walk in with my guitar strapped to my back varies widely -- a befuddled barista stoically acknowledging that "oh yeah, I guess we are having music tonight..."; bustling waiters that seem vaguely annoyed that I need a meal and a glass of water to nourish the vocal chords that they will later lavish excited approval upon when that big voice pours out of that little frame; and in this case, the Mandolin Cafe -- a shining beacon of coffee house etiquette -- where I am greeted warmly by a hostess who lets me know right away that they intend to feed me a full dinner replete with all the not-too-hot water and excessive honey this traveling musician requires, and (thankfully) when she requires it.

"The sound guy will be here any minute," she assures me. The what? No equipment lugging. No awkward moments of trying to remember if the plug goes in the line-in or line-out hole. No pretending like I know what I'm doing as I turn this knob or that. And, well, when it comes down to it, it's nice to be treated like a musical goddess that's about to shine her magical light on your patrons. And not for the reasons you might be thinking, although probably for those too. It's just that I spend most of my days now sweating over new guitar chords, racking my brains for that one word that will pull together a lyric that communicates the inarticulateable state of my being, falling face forward into the computer screen trying to book enough gigs to keep this endeavor afloat, and above all, keeping myself present and balanced as I dive the dark ravine of sensitive perception filled with freezing cold and fiery tensions that inspire the kind of creativity that could either tear my sweet self apart or make me a powerful, lucid artist. For that effort anyway, it's nice to be treated as an honored guest, albeit humble artist servant of the people.

After placing an order for dinner, I make my way to the women's bathroom. I gaze into the mirror at myself. I just drove two and a half hours from Portland to Tacoma alone, marveling at the persistent, soft, easy rain, the watery expanses of Washington State bridge overlooks, and endless towering walk of green Douglas Firs that manage to stretch the world upwards -- marveling to myself -- I do a lot of that lately. So, I am  about to bare my fucking soul in song to a room full of people I don't know a thing about ... thousands of miles from home on a financial wing and a prayer ... bearing like the fragilest, most precious thing my voice, my words, my fingers on the frets ... steadying it all for two intensely focused hours like a tray of fine crystal stacked one on top of the other. Then, I'll drive on to the next new place filled with new expectant faces. As I look intently into my own eyes in the mirror of the women's bathroom, these are the exact words that form on my lips as it fully dawns on me for the first time this hare-brained path that is no longer a plan but a living, unfolding reality: "I am crazy. Look at me. I am fucking crazy! What the hell am I doing? This is awesome."

I grin.