The accordionist believed for years that exhaustion was simply part of musicianship. Late-night polka gigs. Weddings where drunk uncles demanded encores. Endless driving across Ontario with coffee as both fuel and religion. By his late fifties, sleep had become thin and unreliable. He woke at four in the morning with his heart pounding as if chased by invisible tax collectors. Eventually the doctor informed him his blood pressure was high, dangerously so. He responded like many musicians. First denial, then badly performed research from the internet. Sodium. Stress. Genetics. Caffeine. Sleep. Politics. Everything became suspect except the life itself. Slowly he noticed the nights that affected him worst were not merely the latest ones but the loudest. Fast dance music played for audiences demanding perpetual stimulation. Four-hour sets where he attacked the accordion, trying to outrun mortality through bellows.

One afternoon, almost accidentally, he accepted a quieter concert at a small church. No “Beer Barrel” requests. He played long drones, old Eastern European hymns his grandmother hummed while cooking. The room grew still. Something in his own nervous system seemed to unclench. He slept deeply that night for the first time in months. After, he deliberately began changing his repertoire. More spaciousness. More silence between phrases. Audiences became more attentive even if they shrank a bit. He discovered music did not merely express his inner state, it reinforced it. For years he unknowingly trained his body toward agitation now the performances themselves became calmer places to inhabit. His blood pressure improved gradually and so did his sleep. Eventually he realized he was simply playing music, when in fact the music had also been playing him.