Austin — In the business of consulting and facilitation there is an inevitable moment in the mid afternoon when somebody carries or wheels in some form of sugar vehicle. In my company it’s often peanut M&Ms. It is an unusually engaging and lively afternoon in which there is not a substantial, animal stirring among the participants when these pellets or their analogs arrive.
Often I pass. Today I don’t. I don’t eat a lot of the engineered pleasure bombs, but just enough so that when I arrive home, I am a heavy bag of sand, scraping my knuckles at the nadir of a sugar curve. If not for my singing practice all indications would point to bed time.
But sing I do, sitting at a dining room table strewn with mail. It takes a few minutes to dig into the practice and when I do I can feel my energy meter rising. It’s a wholly different upswing than that caused by the cane grain. It is wider, more liquid, slow release, sun rising, awakening, a slow motion slap across the face.