The Bulls on the Hill: A Story About Performance and Patience

I want to tell you a story. It’s not clean. It’s not polite. But it’s there. If you can hear it.

Two bulls stand on a hill. One young — muscles taut, eyes wild and vibrant, eager and wanting. One old — steady breath, slow blink, knowing, understanding. Below them at the bottom of the hill: a sea of cows graze the field open.

The young one snorts, stomps, excitedly coming over the hill, “Let’s run,” he says, “Let’s charge down there and take one of those cows.” The old one turns, a half-smile in the corner of his mouth, “Why don’t we walk down there,” he says, “and take them all?”

I bring this up on some level because I see in myself both bulls — the young and the old. In the young, I am running, as I did when I first started this journey, open mic to open mic, door to door, stage to stage, eager for the next crowd, the smile in the audience, the attention that lands on you that you just can’t get off.

That said, now … there’s something to the weight of having my own rhythm. The silence before the crowd goes wild. The power in restraint and choice, decisiveness.

That is, it’s gotten to a point where I no longer need to sprint down to the bottom of the hill anymore. I don’t need to beg the moments arrival. Things move slower now. Not out of hesitation, but out of knowing. I can walk. Calm. Certain. The performance will still be there when I get there just as it was before only this time with the old bull’s recognition.

All in all, there will be more sets. Plenty, even. I look forward to enjoying them all. And in the meantime, there’s no need to rush. I’ll enjoy walking down to the bottom of the hill where I’m ready to greet every set that waits below.