Listening to The Music in Me: How Not to Fall Back

In several conversations during the past week or so, I have been noticing a striking pattern manifesting in the lives of different people at the moment: the battle between the past, present and future. At times, the past can revisit like a gentle breeze, offering whispers of remembrance, but it can also take the shape of a rabid dog whose jaw locks firmly around one’s leg, fiercely attempting to pull one back. The intent is not necessarily to injure, but to hold on, to take away precious life energy from the present to feed itself on what it no longer possesses: you.

One day last week, I woke up suddenly with a thought of certainty that I *had* to give away or sell the keyboard I had stored in my closet at my parents’ house. I hadn’t thought about the keyboard in years. It was tucked away behind some other items and wasn’t particularly in my scope of vision even accidentally. But, my dream was clear: let go. But, I countered in my head, that keyboard meant a lot to me once. I saved up my own money as a teenager for it. I wrote songs on it. I dreamed of being a musician with it. I would sit in the dark on early mornings before anyone knew I was up and with the dawn cracking through the curtains, play songs that said things out loud to only my ears—things that could not take shape in words. It had served its purpose and yet, I had held on to it, hiding it away in case I would need it or want it again. A lot of us do that with things, people and old ideas or beliefs about ourselves or the world. “Let’s just keep that for a rainy day…” But instead of it being an umbrella to protect from some future experience one may not want or a tool to drive out the clouds of loneliness, apathy or boredom, it becomes a metaphorical way of filtering the sun all the time. And, it is exactly that kind of self-imposed distillation of light that prevents one from coming into fullness.

When talking to a friend yesterday, I had a revelation. Upon hearing my tale of the keyboard, she noted something similar, having recently given away her prized art desk to a young artist who is the daughter of someone she knows. As a teenager, my friend wanted to be an artist. Though we didn’t know each other then, I wanted to be a musician, but life had other plans for both of us. It occurred to me that my single desire to pursue music as a child initiated a series of incredible, direct and indirect synchronicities that lead me to living in Brooklyn twenty years later doing something completely different—to a place where I could find the happiness and connection that was what I truly wanted all along anyway. It wasn’t that I was supposed to be a musician—it was that having that dream got me closer to where I could come into my fullness with all of the parts of myself (some of which I am still discovering). The music in me has never stopped, but relentlessly has called to manifest through different gifts than I had the capacity to understand as a child.  All talents are simply the paths upon which we are called home to ourselves.

Since this event, I have been going through a few other things from my childhood that I kept stored away at my parents’ that I now realize I have no use for—and never will. Trying to hold on to a past in any capacity—besides being an exercise in futility—is a way of abandoning all of the work one has done to be who one has become. In my experience, it zaps life energy on multiple levels—emotionally and physically. But, instead of admonishing that rabid dog or begging it to let go of me, I’m thanking it for the days it was my pet and simply sending it on its way back to where it belongs. It is out for blood, but it can only stay as long as one allows. I’m resisting the pull to return to being someone I am not, to living a thousand half desires, to consenting to spending any moments of my days with people who want to direct my path for a benefit that is not my own. (Sometimes, those rabid dogs travel in packs.) It’s not that the past was horrible to me—parts of my past were amazing and wonderful—but it is merely that I believe with all of my "believingness" that the present and future are where the gifts unknown are.  I don’t cling to certainty as much as I once did.  I’m willing to close my eyes and hold on to the string of the balloons that are lifting me towards the horizon where dreams and love and joy and freedom originate to begin with. Whether it is about letting go of possessions or the past itself, the journey I’m witnessing right now in my life and in that of others around me is ultimately one of opportunity and of being true to the best of one’s self.

What Falling Leaves

There is a subtle shift that occurs every year as we near the end of August and return to the time of harvest, of falling acorns and cooler temperatures. Much in the way that the thought of summer sent a force of elation through my veins as a child, Autumn now holds the same promise for me. I have come to understand transitions all too well and what it feels like to live in a space between the known and the unknown. I struggle to find contentment in the mysteries, especially when they impact my daily life and how I move through the world, but I feel no desire to blame the mysteries themselves for the shape of my life. In fact, what I do not know has come to hone my life as much as the known has.

Two long years ago, my life changed dramatically in the span of thirty minutes. Before, I was generally happy with my life, moving forward with my education and career, though at times overwhelmed with an over-active social life and a greater than usual helping of desire to do everything I could possibly fit into twenty four hours. Having more than one job, putting myself through school, soaking up all the art, music and culture I could find in NYC, traveling the world and ultimately, pushing my body to comply seemed normal to me. The thought of not finding a way to do something I wanted to do (even when that something was everything all at once)-- no matter how impossible or how long it took—was alien to me. It simply would not have occurred to me. Being basically a type-A/over-achiever was not just something I reveled in, it was deeply imprinted in my bloodline. I realized that there were other ways to live a life, but I didn’t realize there was another way for me to live my life.  In hindsight, I can entertain the possibility that it would have to take something drastic happening to slow me down. Indeed, there were hints. In Brooklyn, I live on a street that also has a firehouse. Whenever I was dashing off somewhere, the firemen who stood outside would say hello as I whizzed by. One time, one of them yelled after me, “Hey, slow down!” The irony that first responders were telling me to slow down was lost on me. And, so instead of seeing the yellow lights—if there were any, the signal before me unexpectedly changed to red.

I am tempted to say that I would have made other choices that fateful day—I would not have gone to CA, I would not have spent the day in the horrible desert, I would not have walked through the cactus garden, I would not have gone to that restaurant, I would not have ordered what I ordered, I would not have driven passed the first hospital I saw believing I would be fine, I would not have not known I was having a severe allergic reaction, I would not have accepted the medications that were used to save my life even though they played a role in my body fundamentally changing, I would not, I would not, I would not… Had any of those events been different, my entire life might be different right now. But, it is not and it is pointless to play the “if only. . .” game.  It is easy to assume that my life would be a whole lot better and easier and everything-er, had I not developed a pretty complex food allergy problem and autonomic nervous system issue that has caused over 20 health care practitioners to utter some version of “I have never met anyone like you.” It was amusing when I used to hear sentiments like that from friends and boyfriends for other reasons (I just assumed that maybe they didn’t get out too much) and it was gratifying when I’ve heard professors say that (“What? No other student has ever contextualized Sherlock Holmes and Immanuel Kant in the same paper? Well, okay, but that was kind an obvious way to go… “) and at times, it was embarrassing when bosses would say that (“How can you possibly teach math so easily when you still can’t figure out how to load paper into the copier correctly?” “Uh, I am better at abstractions than practicalities?” True story.) But, it is a whole other ballgame when people who are supposed to know how to help you with your health are at a loss. And, it might be easy to lapse into being depressed about such a thing, but I never seem to take the easy way in anything and don’t consider that an option—especially, if it’s not going to yield the kind of life I value.

Instead, I again have recreated my life. My scope of the world is smaller than it was two years ago, but my focus is far sharper. I move more slowly, but the trade-off is that I see a lot more along the way and let others see it with me. Facing down life and death having a tussle about you in the same moment is a potent antidote to being afraid of any beautiful or not-so-beautiful parts of yourself.  I don’t wonder about my purpose, I don’t have many lingering doubts about my worthiness or my ability to bring love and beauty and joy and passion into the world through me, though remember with compassion what it was like when I did wonder. What I have gained for all I have lost has been clarity, hope, and an awareness of grace—we’re all in the midst of the unknown in some capacity or other.  It is a bit like waking up in the middle of the night disoriented and not knowing where the lamp is—but sensing that there is a sliver of streetlight chasing its way through the curtains at the foot of your bed and instead deciding to turn your gaze towards that.

This not to suggest that I don’t feel levels of discontent given my present circumstance or that I do endeavor with all of the resources afforded me to change it, but it is to state clearly that I have discovered something powerful and potent about the human experience—it is possible to hold within more than one conflicting thought or emotion and to choose which one one wishes to focus upon, even if more than one is present. There are moments when I catch myself saying or thinking, “I want my life back,” but I know deep down there is no going back—only going on and eventually, maybe coming full circle. Like the seasons transition from Spring into Summer or Summer into Autumn, I am the same and yet have been changed by what has come just before. There is only going forward from this point, from this season, from this week, from this day, from this hour, from this moment. My task then becomes not to fight the seasons, but to move through them with as much honesty, gratitude, love, humor and passion as I can—knowing that this time in my life, too, will change.

Provenance of Heart

Cloaked in the cover of night, the amber street light illuminated my path as I dashed home through the darkness mere hours before the dawn would break. Fearless and fast, my steps were filled with the kind of lightness that only joy could bring. On any given day, I would wear several different masks that shaped the hours of my day by allowing the different sides of me to emerge more authentically than ever before. Mornings would find me teaching English and Math to adults. The afternoons were filled with writing until it was time for yoga. And, the evenings and late nights would find me with both my camera and my heart in my hands at some of NYC's lower east side's best music venues surrounded by two of the things that have made life worth living: music and friends. After a lifetime of hardcore searching, I had found them: my people. The creative minds, the underdogs, the artists, the people who fought relentlessly not merely to walk down a path, but to create one, those who created not because they just wanted to, but because they were wholeheartedly driven to.

The spiritual nourishment I receive from being around artistic creations of all kinds extends beyond what words can convey, but I know that I am not alone. The subtle peace found circulating in the air in a museum or gallery, the euphoric energy of a live concert or the intellectual stimulation of seeing a play all offers a kind of energetic exchange. We are recharged not only by the experience that pleases our senses, but by the knowledge that direct channels to the most authentic parts of us as human beings exist. And, if we choose to be open to it, standing before a child's latest messy fingerpainted piece of tattered construction paper is no less magical than gazing at the Mona Lisa.  Though vastly different, both come from similar places within the human heart-- the need to create and express are seeds that ripen and bloom differently for all of us depending on our innate talents, our destinies, our choices and on how we have been socialized.

There is a term used in the art world to explain the place of origin for a work of art: provenance. I believe that if we chase the trail of breadcrumbs back-- or forward-- far enough, the provenance for the works of art that we are leads back to a singular place. We come from a source that is endlessly abundant in all we can imagine and galaxies beyond that. Science has made many wonderful advances, but it is still playing catch up in many ways and a part of life is beautiful because it is mysterious, not despite it. Perhaps, though, understanding the source of art is the same as appreciating that art comes through us from a greater source.

After my life dramatically and instantly changed (yet again...) a year and a half ago and much of the relative normalcy that I had established for myself had disappeared, what remained without question was the clarity and life-sustaining desire to share my art and words with the world. It took leaving my life-- almost completely and not metaphorically-- for me to come into myself and to embrace my path as an artist fully. I  am fairly certain that I did not choose this path as an artist for myself initially-- it was one that I was born into this life with, but I absolutely choose it now. And, that kind of surrender is a little like the bliss of catching the gaze of a stranger across the room and discovering that he/she is your beloved.  Every time I am writing or capturing an image with my camera, I feel life pulsing through me and gliding out into the world, continuing on its way to reach wherever it is meant to travel. As artists-- and as human beings-- we don't get to hold on to the love that seeks to shine through us, but merely to honor its presence for as long as that ultimate guest is willing to stay. And, in spite of continuing, rather enormous challenges that have moved into my life, I view my work each day as merely to be the best hostess to the powers of creation that I can be. And, to dance with the force that is the provenance of both the art and heart of us all.