Last night, a songwriter/musician whom I admire asked me a question that stopped my heart. He asked me if he wrote a song for me to sing, would I accept his instruction when it came time to record it. In essence, would I sing the song the way he wanted me to. Would I do my best to produce the kind of sound he heard in his head.

Now, usually, this would be a no-brainer answer: “Uh, yeah, sure I would. I love what you do. Let’s go!” But I didn’t say that. I said something lame, like “Maybe it’s best if we keep our musical lives separate.” See, this songwriter is also a dear friend. I love him like crazy. We have a great rapport and relationship outside of music, and I’d like to keep it that way.

But that’s not the real reason I blew him off. The real reason is, I’m scared. Not of singing the song, but of what might happen to me while he’s telling me HOW to sing it.

I remember long ago when I was working on the song, “Lover Man” with my piano man, John Simon. It was in the days when I sang every song too high because of my training and the ignorance that came with that kind of training. John, during the course of our rehearsal, tried to get me to sing it lower and grittier, with more chest voice, which made total sense for this song.

I couldn’t do it.

I tried, but I couldn’t. I could do it NOW, but I couldn’t do it then. I was so locked in to my old ways of singing. I sang the way I sang, right or wrong, gritty or not gritty. But it hurt that I couldn’t produce the sound John heard in his head. It hurt, because to me it meant I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t the singer he wanted me to be, a singer he’d like to listen to.

As artists, or would-be artists, there are certain people in our lives from whom praise and appreciation mean the world. To have their respect and admiration sends us over the moon and back. It makes us feel invincible. I’m not talking about critics or music reviewers; I’m talking about people we have a personal relationship with. Lovers, parents, teachers, dear friends. People we love and respect and admire.

And when those people don’t like what we do or who we are as artists, or they say things that feel belittling or dismissive of what we love, it cuts deep. And leaves a scar. I know. I’ve got several of them.

But as artists, we keep on doing what we love despite what others may say or think. We do it because we love it, because it’s a part of who we are. And if we’re lucky, we get the support and confidence of those we hold dear. If we’re lucky, what we do shakes the dust from someone’s heart so they can feel what’s true.

Now, one of my favorite songwriters whose work I admire and whose friendship I treasure, has offered me an opportunity that has the potential to sting like a son-of-a-bitch. The stakes feel higher than ever, because I’ll tell you a secret: I’ve longed to have this songwriter/musician friend ASK me to sing something he’s written. I’ve always wished he would. And now that it’s a possibility, I’m scared. Scared of how deeply it might hurt if I can’t cut the mustard, if I can’t create the sound he wants me to create.

Oh, how fragile is this singer’s ego sometimes! How easily I can be blown off course by a nonchalant comment, a suggestion, an opinion… or lack of one.

But you know what? I’m even more scared of letting this opportunity pass me by than I am of the possible ego-shattering fallout sure to ensue should this project fail to turn out well. Hey, I’ve been blasted apart before and somehow, I’m still here. Still singing. Though a bit more self-consciously.

And sometimes, not always, when he’s working on a song, he catches fire.

The creative spark, lit by a riff, a snippet of melody, a chord progression starts burning, and he becomes consumed in a creative blaze. The song, as it emerges, overtakes him. He can’t stop working on it, listening to it, thinking about it. The flames rage, and my friend burns, happily, almost ecstatically, as the song cooks inside of him.

And sometimes, when he’s in the burn of this relentless creative fire, he’ll break down and cry, overcome by the beauty of what is moving through him and into song. Grateful, humbled, torn open.

I told him that I believe this is where he touches God. In those moments, he melts into The Creative and is lost in Her embrace, Her Swirl. The music moving through him destroys all that would hold him separate from Her, and the exquisite, intimate connection with the Divine brings him to his knees as it lifts him to the heights.

In witnessing this creative consumption in another human being, I realize there is nothing in my life — no activity, drug, diversion or spiritual practice — that allows me access to the kind of Creative connection my friend finds in writing music. And this makes me incredibly sad. It’s as if I’m grieving Something I’ve never known except by its absence and my insatiable craving for It.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a fierce, passionate desire for such a connection with the Creative. This desire has led me down many a multitude of spiritual, artistic, and career-oriented paths, some of which I’m still traveling upon. And now I see how even my musical journey has only been a feeble attempt to move as close to the Creative as I can, even if I can never experience Her all-consuming fire.

Oh, and sure, I’ve had moments and full-blown epiphanies where I’ve felt the presence of the Divine. Her grace and love. And these moments that have brought me to my knees in gratitude and awe. But what I’m grieving is the absence of that fire, that unrelenting, all-consuming burn that rushes through an artist insisting they create, create, create.