I haven’t touched my harmonium since July of 2020. It’s a piece of my life that is tied, directly and inescapably, to some of my harshest childhood experiences. It’s tied to some sweet childhood memories, too — and I’ve built a whole adult life that has woven this instrument into both my personal joy and my professional livelihood. It’s brought me delight and fulfillment during creative processes; it’s given me an anchor while I sing before a roomful of people; it’s enabled me to become a more proficient musician; it’s enriched my days in more ways than I can count. And yet, when I look at it now, I feel a void. Therein lies the challenge of repair: How do we peel away the pieces that were terrible, and keep the pieces that weren’t, when everything is blended together? How do I reconcile loving something that I also have reason to hate? I have these same types of messy mixed feelings about yoga, meditation, mantra, Gurmukhi, and every other component part of my complicated childhood. These things that are now used as a balm by so many; they were used against me, and against thousands of others. With greatest respect for any and all pieces that were pirated from sacred traditions (about 95% of Kundalini yoga’s Gurmukhi mantras were lifted wholesale from Sikhism, many of them cleverly “repurposed” by the man who did the lifting), these things most commonly viewed as ‘medicines’ were being wielded as tools of manipulation and control. And yet… Those practices and their soundcurrents were the ground upon which the foundation of my human psyche was built. They’ve been a part of my life since infancy; I knew how to play a harmonium before I knew how to brush my own hair. Kriyas and meditations that were invented by a madman did actually give me real and lasting peace in some of my hardest moments; they did often lessen my anxiety when I was freaking out; mantras did serve to comfort me when I was unbearably sad. And I have been drowning in an aching sense of loss, not having those touchstones any more. Some ineradicable part of me misses them, misses their easy comfort, misses how I was able to just lean. That longing is precisely why these 3 forthcoming recordings exist. When the dominos started falling a few years ago, when the picture of what had really happened fully crystallized, I was tempted to wipe every single mantra I’d ever recorded off of the internet. For a split second, I wanted to set everything on fire. Then I felt defeated by the bigness of my grief. Then I went numb and got quiet. Then the deep work began. The first phase of that deep work held a lot of “no,” and an equal amount of “I don’t know.” I drew boundaries in every direction, throwing away huge portions of my identity, things I’d felt so sure of. I weighed and measured the value of everything I thought I cared about, pulling up rotten roots whenever I could get a good enough grip on them, keeping only tiny clippings if I kept anything at all. I shredded apart what all I’d been taught, what I’d observed and absorbed, what I’d blindly trusted, what I once was. Then I stood in the middle of the carnage, and could only ask “Where is my self? What is my life? How do I heal?” At which point we — Ram Dass & I — decided to begin writing and recording new material, which is my way of processing the unprocessable. I knew I had to get things OUT, otherwise they would eat me alive. The job I gave myself in that composition phase was to listen, and listen well. If anything struck the chord of a tentative “maybe” or an easy “yes,” I sat up straight and paid attention to it. Where things felt fluid, I followed. When surprising doors opened, I entered. Whatever captured my senses was explored. So my heartbroken confusion birthed “Road to Somewhere.” My tears and anger spoke “Here Comes the Rain” into being. My friend Sukhmani wrote “Clear” as a gift for me, a gesture of sweetest support, and I accepted it — which gave us a lovely little sunspot on a project that was edged in undeniable darkness. And 7 more English or Spanish or gibberish tracks were woven into being, built from other facets of that big web of feeling. New bones. New bones because my old ones had crumbled. New bones, forged of something different. A part of me rejoiced at the freshness of it all. I would begin again, wholly new. But another part of me quietly reached backwards. Down the rabbit hole, and into a vault I thought I had closed forever. I looked around at a thousand old treasures, the sounds and recitations of my youngest years. I questioned their integrity, hating that I had to, wishing that I didn’t. I sought out the most well-worn, the most familiar, whatever parts felt safe to touch. And I asked my weathered heart if it would truly enjoy exploring a few small pieces of old territory. I wondered if I’d be able to feel any of the beauty any more. In answer, I felt a soft “yes.” So I gave them a try. Each of these 3 recordings burst into existence with such clear purpose. “Mera Man Lochai” honors longing. “Suniai” honors listening. “Akal” honors grief. Their presence was not only welcome, but gave me things I needed. They cradled specific wounds, the right bandage at the right time. And they flowed with such ease, I knew they belonged. So here they are. What I thought was a forever ending has served to help me begin again. The path onward remains a strange one, though. I am still full of “no” and “I don’t know,” still pulling things apart and sifting through mounds of muck. In excavation, I continue to gain and lose. And those same questions ring out: How do we peel away the pieces that were terrible, keeping the pieces that weren’t, when everything is blended together? How do I reconcile loving something that I also have reason to hate? For me, the answer is slowly. It is also deliberately, patiently, and with the awareness that I am allowed to change my mind about ANY of it at ANY time. True for you, too — which I trust you already deeply know. I hope this trio of old bones will support you as it did me. xx,J
Building New Bones From Dust
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