I’ve been thinking lately about the difference between a gift and a skill.

I recently directed my second music video. It’s for a song called “Home to Me,” which will be featured over the end credits of the upcoming film JIMMY.

The funny thing is, I never really aspired to be a director. Even editing over 10 official music videos is something I learned gradually, before I had encountered many of the creative partners I work with now — or maybe before I was ready for them.

That thought came back to me during an interview this week when someone asked, “How can someone use their gifts in music and movies like you do?”

I realized I’ve never really thought of what I do in film as a gift. I’ve thought of it more as a skill: something I’ve slowly learned, practiced and honed over the years.

Developing shot lists. Learning the language of a set. Sitting in dark editing rooms, deep-diving into Premiere or Logic. Building relationships with local directors, editors and producers. Styling myself and my cast. Figuring things out one project at a time.

But maybe the fact that something has required work doesn’t make it any less of a gift.

To me, a gift isn’t some instantly magical talent. It’s something that gives back to you as much as you’ve given it. And film has given me so much: a way to translate ideas into something tangible, a reason to keep learning, and a community of fellow creatives who have become close friends along the way.

So maybe the line between a gift and a skill has gotten a little blurry for me these days.

I don’t mind that one bit.

You may start to see a lot more of my friend, Scorpy.

Almost exactly a year ago in Mexico, I woke up in the middle of the night to a sting that burned like a little flame inside my arm.

After scrambling with my husband to find the light switch, we stood silently over our bed, waiting to see what foreign creature would appear.

Neither of us could’ve expected an alacrán (scorpion in Spanish) to crawl out from under my pillow.

I quickly captured it with a glass cup, covered it with a coaster and was very eager to go back to sleep.

I know, I know. But I’ve always had an affinity for critters.

Thankfully, I married a wiser, more cautious man who somehow coerced me into seeing a doctor.

The rest was a fussy, rushed blur. Somewhere in the middle of it, I was told that this exact kind of scorpion had just killed our lovely doctor’s neighbor in 15 minutes.

Which, naturally, was a very comforting thing to hear at 2 a.m.

The next morning, a friend from high school texted me this scripture:

“Behold, I have given you authority to trample on snakes and scorpions and to overcome all the power of the enemy; nothing will harm you.” — Luke 10:19

So basically, I’ve been running on this promise for the last 365 days.

And it’s carried me well.

Especially lately, in moments when I’ve felt like I don’t belong. There have been quite a few of those recently.

Maybe you’ve felt it too — walking into a room and immediately wondering where you rank in the pecking order. Wondering if you belong there. Wondering if everyone else got the memo except you.

Next time you find yourself there, remember this scripture with me.

You may feel like you’re at the bottom of the pecking order.

But maybe you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be..

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An album tends to find its way into existence, but rarely through ease or calm.

It nags at you around 2:56 a.m., sending you lyric and melody ideas that you have to get up and record in the kitchen because you’re trying to have healthy boundaries with your phone and keep it in another room while you sleep.

It brings inspiration freely, and execution costs you your last penny.

Somehow, this album process has been one of the least excruciating.

Perhaps that’s because I’ve finally accepted the unique blend of vulnerability, 16-hour workdays and real source material that comes in a complex little package — equal parts pain and bliss.

I’ve also accepted that I’m a flawed and funny songwriter.

The process of crafting a song is the highlight of what I get to do. No matter the hour. No matter the era.

These songs are ultimately for you, but they were for me first.

Meaning, I won’t tell you something I haven’t sat with for a long while. Sometimes years of processing have gone into a lyric before it ever reaches your ears.

That doesn’t necessarily make it true.

It just makes it worth your while.

Love you, familia.

Your Prima,

MŌRIAH

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