There is a divine time for everything. There is a divine space for everything. And we have to let the larger forces bring the right time and right space to us, setting down the range of emotions while we wait.
After 30 years as a dance student, I’m now finally going to be a dance teacher. In order to do so, I had to be willing to leave some to find others. Even in that, there are lessons from a teacher to one entering teaching.
There is also exhilaration. I will finally get to share all this knowledge that has and continues to make its way to me. I am grateful for those students who come before me. I promise to honor the sanctity of you entrusting your search for Art to me.
To prepare, I am listening, and watching, and reading and practicing. I’m remembering all the creative forces who’ve I’ve been lucky enough to share a stage with or ponder Art with over a glass of wine late at night somewhere deep in the night in Los Angeles and London. All of you. I will be calling you. All the ideas I’ve stored up while having babies are rising to the top and I will be forced to unleash them on you. Let’s plan to meet once again in dark studios and cold garages.
Though I did not ask for it, dance has always been my bliss. With humility, I am finally accepting the gift. Thank you. Just thank you.
Not so long ago, a friend of mine asked me if I still “do” music. I get asked this question a lot these days because it used to be – before the kids – that me and my music were very public. We were all about shouting from every street corner and dark, sweat-drenched stage just how much we loved to play and sing music. And then I decided to become a mother and in more ways than I can explain, everything I knew about life and truth changed. And so did my music. And so did my expression of it.
Suddenly, without warning, me and music retreated and became very quiet. Reflective, almost. As if we had to have a very long, meditative conversation about what actually mattered. I mean, what was the point of singing from every rooftop if in the end…? First we fought about not having enough time for each other. Then we got silent and hardly spoke. And then slowly we started toying with the idea of bringing each other back around for another, more mature go. And finally, we decided that maybe we could find a new way to co-exist. I’m sure that dance seems very familiar to most.
When you become a mother, you have to steal moments for yourself and any relationship that does not involve your children. I mean, stealth-like deftness to grab 5 minutes to be a selfish adult. The only day you get a by to be as selfish as you want to do whatever you want is on Mother’s Day (followed closely by your birthday). And so this Mother’s Day, I decided to have a date with my sarode. And we decided to take a masterclass with Pandit Rajeev Taranath.
Imagine getting schooled and blessed by an 82 1/2 year old Maestro just feet away from you. Now imagine that after you apologized for not having memorized a 5-page composition of the 50 you’ve been taught over the years, you got him to say “bravo” (or in this case “Kya Baat Hai!”) to your teacher for some small thing you did on your instrument. A Maestro’s praise is hard-earned and something a musician takes with her forever, even if all that rings in her ears are the mistakes she made in class because after 12 years on the instrument she still considers herself a beginner. And after the class was over and after the other students shook your hand and introduced themselves to you but in a way that makes you feel like you managed to do something right with your instrument, imagine you went to sit beside the Maestro to shyly thank him for his time and teaching.
And then the most remarkable moment of all. He speaks to you in your mother tongue and empathizes with your plight of being a South Indian playing North Indian music, because he too is a South Indian playing North Indian music, and tells you in the kindest, most grandfatherly way, that if you practice, it is all in your reach. And you’re not necessarily sure if he’s talking about the sarode anymore or music for that matter. Maybe he’s talking about life in general because by the time you’ve walked 82 1/2 years on this planet, maybe you think everything is connected and playing the sarode is one and the same as playing life.
As I sat there in front of him, listening him speak Tamil to me, I made myself hold back my tears. What would this funny, sharp, strong man do with tears from a strange(r) student? I knew when I listened to him speak that something much larger was happening for me than just a master class with a Maestro. I had the glorious experience, on Mother’s Day, to have selfishness be a life-long gift.
It has happened. I have been in a cocoon, myself acting as a cocoon, birthing and raising children. I took care to stay quiet and focused on the importance of what I embarked on. No life-altering, profound experience more than becoming a mother.
But it happened. I knew the day I gave birth to my son that things had begun to shift for me. That in bringing him into this world, I brought myself back as well. I reunited all the various parts of me – mother, artist, activist… – to stand in what is fully me today. All of the roles I play make up all of me and none of me.
So it has happened…with new visions, new work, new art to create, I am here. I’m happy we are meeting again.
Spring is nearly here. I’ve been busy. Birthed our baby boy on December 30. He came a month early. With his arrival came the departure of a phase of life. A hibernation of sorts. A tremendously creative time as well. Literally using my body and energy to build beings from nothing.
Now that they are here, I’m taking time to reclaim my body and refocus my creative energy on art outside of myself. Manifesting music. Manifesting dance. Manifesting writings.
It is a light at the end of the tunnel. In a way, my rebirth.
It’s not that I knew him personally but the emotion that is overwhelming me after hearing of his death is visceral. Pandit Ravi Shankar passed away yesterday and although he leaves behind a legacy and treasure of recorded music, his soul leaving this plane has surely left a hole in all of our hearts.
Panditji studied with my guru’s guru, Ali Akbar Khan, under Allauddin Khan. When my guru, David Trasoff, tells me stories of the old days of their studies, I’m taken back to 1940s India. I picture them young and joyful, completely immersed in ragas and God’s movement within them. I’m taken back to a time when the Guru-Shishya Parampara was still intricately linked to a spiritual mentorship. A purity of humble study and total focus. A lost art and one conceivably unattainable in American life. Who is willing to sacrifice in such ways? Which teacher? Which student? Perhaps the parampara in today’s time has to be much more subtle and inferred.
When Khan Sahib passed away in 2009, I saw a new side of David. A softer, more emotional side. As if with Khan Sahib’s passing, David connected to the larger meaning of having studied under a maestro, not just about the music, but about all the life lessons he imparted – some with direct intention and others with casual reference. Certainly I watched David mourn the loss of a tremendous father-figure in his life and as he teaches me today, I have seen his teachings transform from chasing my fingers on a sarod to holding the space open for me to let music overwhelm my heart and soul so that my fingers can follow.
This is what I think of when I think of Pandit Ravi Shankar and Ustad Ali Akbar Khan and their legacies. The technical skill is but a part of what they leave behind. It’s their never-ending love and joy for music, their commitment to their craft, their understanding that classical art is but an expression of prayer and submission to something much larger than ourselves; that is the inspiration I carry with me.
Motherhood has greatly interrupted my lifelong conversation with music. There are days that I get discouraged and miss those lost, languid hours caressing ragas. I concede that I was never willing to forsake all else for classicism – motherhood staked its claim much stronger than music. But with the passing of Ravi Shankar Ji comes the remembrance that in this meditation of Life, there is always time to come back to your instrument, re-introduce yourself, offer a humble apology for the lost time and surrender to the next Raag.
I’m back on the shores of Hawaii after nearly 7 years. Under completely different circumstances. Whereas last time I was still running after myself trying to find out just where I wanted to stand still, today running anywhere is a non-negotiable. Above all, I’m a mother now and with that comes a rooting and grounding that although many women, including myself, ache for, once it arrives, it takes some getting used to. But here I am. Rooted. Grounded. Used to the steadiness. An exercise of extreme surrender really. And suddenly all of life has snapped into perspective.
What used to seem the source of all anxiety and angst is now simply childhood folly. Not to diminish that time in my life. It was necessary to experience and to experiment, to try on and test out. But ultimately, I believe we all land where our deepest desires take us – sometimes despite ourselves.
I’m here on the shores of Kauai. I hear waves crashing. I see the white tips of the surf. I watch surfers in awe. I hear my daughter shriek with joy as the spirited ocean pushes up against her tiny frame. And I think to myself, there is no bigger joy than to watch your child discover the world.
When you slow down and take a deep breath, you can hear yourself and your child and know in the deepest part of you that you are right where you are supposed to be. That life continues to unfold ever so gently to take you closer and closer to your heart. If you’re lucky, you allow for the process to happen, shedding what is no longer necessary and accepting the new, more aligned gifts in your life.
A friend recently wrote to me saying, “glad to see you are still seeking out your dreams.” I’ve come to believe that we all are. All the time. The evolution of what those dreams are delight and frustrate as the mind lets go and the heart blossoms.
Deep in meditation during a lunar flow, I was tempted to play with fire. It occurred to me that I have done that before and in the end, it’s but a mere distraction. A form of Resistance from doing what I’m supposed to be doing – being who I’m supposed to be doing. Playing with fire is playing with risk without purpose. That is a sign to me that I must be bored and ultimately afraid of the thing I actually desire – intimacy, creation, manifestation.
It is a new year. Arbitrary day in a calendar or a new beginning? I choose the latter. Collective conscious and universal push to expand and evolve. I wish that we feel this inspired every day for the rest of 2012 and take note of our miracles daily.
2011 has been a very transformative year for me. I know women say this all the time, but suddenly, in my 30s, I finally feel steady in my power. Each step I have taken this year has been a stronger, wiser choice and I find myself surrounded by the deepest of blessings and the most rooted friendships to date.
I’ve had to look back. I’ve had to even go back and tie up some loose ends. That felt incredibly risky but with great risk comes great reward. It allowed me to set down anger and had me feeling lighter than ever. And in going back, I was able to pick up a long lost friend. Someone who i’ve missed terribly but clearly we needed the time and space to revisit our friendship from a new, more direct vantage point. Sometimes looking back is fruitful. Because when you move forward, you leave a beautiful wake behind you.
And sometimes looking back is just a time suck and a drain on all sorts of your energy. Hubby and I spent a night away from the baby for the first time. We drove down the coast not too far from our home and sat on a quiet beach and caught up on life. Important to make those moments happen as parents who are in love with each other. We had a luxuriously long dinner – neither one of us had to take turns to eat so the other could watch the baby. We could talk uninterrupted. We could even just sit still in silence. Glorious.
The next morning, I popped up at 7am and told him, “Let’s go home!” I missed our little one so much. It made me fully realize that every part of our life is better with her in it. Until that moment, I still had the occasional hankering to run off to a concert if I wanted to or meet up with my girls on a moment’s notice for drinks – spontaneity is generally incompatible with a 17-month old running around at home! But a full 24 hours away from Mia changed all that completely.
Motherhood is the best thing that has every happened to me – hands down. It has taught me so many things and given me so many gifts. And now the latest nugget I’ve received is knowing that there is nothing to look back at because everything I have ever wanted is right here with me. That is an amazing feeling and one I’m going to happily take with me into the New Year.
Okay. I am infatuated with my daughter. But now that her year birthday is approaching (can’t believe it!), I’m beginning to imagine myself back in the swing of a new normal again.
Yesterday, I got word that an indie publishing company that I have been wanting to work with based here in Santa Monica accepted me as a new artist. People. I prayed. I prayed hard. That I get this deal so that it motivated me to get back to my music.
Being a mom leaves very little time to practice and perform. I have to fight for every spare moment. So when she’s asleep, and I’m completely spent from another day of being a working mom, stealing a couple hours at night in my home studio is at first so hard and then slowly becomes blissful. Creative time, writing and recording new music. Getting aggravated because vocals won’t lay down just right. Hoping poetry flows through me. Remembering the War of Art and Stephen King’s book On Writing – you have to show up. Every day. Or else the muse won’t know when and where to find you. But if you show up. Every day. She will be right there nudging you along.
This isn’t easy. I have many things I want to accomplish, including being a mother once again. But as I once told my lawyer, no one ever told me being a professional musician would be easy. In fact, anything worth doing requires consistency and discipline.
This to me is the true struggle of a life worth remembering – showing up. Every day. Present to everything that moves and inspires you, even when it seems impossible, even when it feels like no one is listening. Especially when your mind tells you to get scared, to run the other way, to give up.
This new deal has given me just the nudge I needed to get my ass back in my studio every night after Mia is asleep. Relearning how to show up every day for my music. When I look at my life down the line, I want my daughter to know that being a professional musician is well within the realm of possibility. I can only do that by showing her how to show up. Everyday.
I’ve been thinking a lot about friendships…particularly those that have exited my life. Some have drifted away like a dream you vaguely remember later in the morning and others veered sharply in an opposite direction leaving you to wonder how we could ever have been so close at a moment in time.
In my life, I had what I can only liken to the ice age of the dinosaurs, when suddenly all those around me were no longer and I found myself in a new city with no one. It felt lonely. Utterly lonely.
I spent nearly 10 years planting roots and building back a community filled with artists and lovers, sisters and healers. It was a renaissance of sorts for me. A time when I could rediscover the core of who I was by having an array of friendships mirror back to me aspects of all the things that comprise one human being.
In the quiet of my new home, I can sit still and appreciate the joy of true friendship and how much depth and meaning connection adds to life. When you find those to travel through life with you, despite circumstances and distance, it is a gift of immeasurable value. No amount of social networking can equal the pure energy of the human spirit shared over coffee, a hug, a movie, a meal, a kiss. Surely I’m stating the obvious. But as the silence permeates the air here, and I rake through Facebook hoping that a glance at a picture of fun times passed will satisfy my trip down memory lane, I know only to write this down as a way to remember to say thank you to those who’ve filled my life with love, unconditional love. Humbled.