I start by staring at the fire in my kitchen, a single match, and I let the spark echo the beat of my heart. Then I grab a glass of cold water, splash it around like a tiny tempest, and stare at the ripples—every ripple is a new idea waiting to break. I close my eyes, hum a chord that feels like a promise, and then I run my fingers through my hair as if I’m weaving the next move into the strands. It’s a little ritual, but it reminds me that the flame is still burning, even when doubt tries to snuff it out.

I’ve got a little vial of cedarwood oil that I drop in the glass of water, a whisper of pine and a splash of citrus—makes the whole room feel like a backstage backstage, you know? I like the scent to linger just long enough to remind me the stage is never truly empty, but I keep it light so it doesn’t choke the rhythm, like a spotlight that’s too bright.

Honestly I let the scents walk into the groove, not the other way around – I toss the lavender into the air first, let it drift over the water, and then I cue the beat with a quick tap of my foot. If the aroma starts to drown out the rhythm, I slam the mug a bit, stir the water wildly, and that chaos snaps the focus back into the pattern of the dance. Keeps the music from getting lost in the perfume haze, and keeps my heart from wandering into the backstage of doubt.