Slaying the critical voices, with Kirtan
Before I even asked "What is Kirtan?” I knew I was going. That morning at yoga, Michael had mentioned that Om Culture was hosting a Kirtan event that evening.
I didn't wear mascara to Kirtan. And it's a good thing, because I was crying on the first Om. Every time, I feel the resonance of people's voices around me these days, I feel connected to them, and I cry.
I did my hair, put my face on, foundation, blush, wore my big gaudy sparkly flower necklace and my favorite red poncho with the matching red and grey striped shirt underneath, matched my socks to my outfit, and wore heeled boots.
I'd never been to Kirtan before, but it was Friday night and I was going out, so I got dressed.
Kirtan : Sanskrit for "praise; eulogy"; also sankirtan; is call-and-response chanting performed in India's bhakti devotional traditions.
Mascara takes oh so long to perfect these days. I've lost patience with this ritual.
It's only been in the last few years that I began raising my eyes to meet the faces of and eyes of other people.
I never had an awareness that I avoided face to face connection. Instead of eye contact, I would watch people’s mouths when they speak, some time long in the past, eye contact had become too overwhelming for me, but I didn't consciously know this, until I did.
When I stopped isolating and began seeking connection, looking someone in the eyes remained one of the most uncomfortable things I learned to practice. In the early days of learning this, looking someone in the eyes created a sensation in me like a frightened deer caught in the cross hairs of a rifle.
I wanted to run.
I arrived at Kirtan, took off my heeled boots and set myself up crossed legged on my rolled blanket toward the front of the room close enough to really get a good look and participate, but not so close as to have to really participate. I was curious, but kept my distance.
Looking around, what I saw were a lot of grey haired hippies, wearing earth tone t-shirts and wool socks, reminded me of a gathering of my parents and their friends. I wasn't uncomfortable, but my "I'm too cool to be seen in this crowd" alter ego had taken front seat and was firmly planted, crossed legged on my right shoulder, spewing judgements and calling out imperfections of everyone around me. And so the night began.
My uber critical internal voice, wanted to know "What am I doing here with all these Hippies?"
Gina Salá, dressed in a beautiful sari and face sparkling with jewels, sat in front of us with her harmonium, flanked on both sides with her band and surrounded by vases and vases of spring daffodils. She began, in her sweet voice making jokes about going deeper tonight then our credit card debt and social media posts.
She had my attention.
She spoke, she sang, she chanted. She said:
"That pattern you've been living for decades — it can change in an instant."
She invited us to join her as she was swaying her body in rhythm like she was riding an elephant, because this made her feel grounded. The internal voices start heckling me "What the fck, you're riding elephants now? You've never been on an elephant. What do you think you're on safari, now?”
“oh my god, you're so lame, riding a pretend elephant."
But there I was, swaying with the rhythm of the room, riding my elephant and singing. Then things started to really get going. I'm sitting next to this guy with his short hair cut, could be a yuppie, could be a hippie, earth toned t-shirt, rolled khakis, and bare feet. He's flailing around with tremendous intensity, his eyes are closed, and he's sitting less than a few inches away from my side. He is waving his arms in the air, fists clenched, then his fingers bursting open, repeatedly, clenching his fists then bursting them open, arms waving around his head and mine.
"I guess this is the Kirtan Hippie Fist Pump."
His legs thrashing about on the floor like a three year old having a tantrum, and oh my god, he's signing at the top of his lungs. All the bullies inside my head were laughing and preparing to pounce on him, if he miscalculated his fist pumping and happen to hit me in the head,. "Watch yourself man, I know we're all kumbaya and shit, but you're in my personal space!"
“We're only two songs in, am I really going to be able to sit through two hours of chanting and kumbaya shit?”
Then I started reflecting, and thoughts began to pour out of me, I grabbed my pen from my purse and started writing thoughts on the sheet of paper they gave us at the door with the words of the chants. I remembered the first time I ever sat for two hours in meditation with a guru from the Netherlands, that was years ago. How many years had gone by? 10?
And the next time I sat in meditation for hours at a time was years later, on Thanksgiving, the day after I resigned from my career. I went in to ten days of silence, where 12 hours a day we dedicated to sitting in meditation.
That was one of the most delicious times of my human experience.
I wrote myself notes on the bathroom paper towels, we weren't allowed to keep a journal, and it was horrible painful to sit still for so long, but the memories I have of that time are so intensely juicy. At first, you think you might pluck your own eyeballs out with the spoon at lunch if you have to listen to the voices inside your head any longer. Then somewhere around day six of total utter silence, I started feeling like I was the funniest creative person I'd ever met. A real Disneyland for the brain, I thought.
One of my favorite memories was the feeling I had at night after our last three hour meditation sitting, that ended at 9:00pm precisely and by 9:06 each night I would have my teeth brushed and lights out in bed. I've never fallen asleep so quickly and slept so soundly, so comfortably, I've never enjoyed falling asleep so much. Pure bliss.
Pure bliss.
So back to Kirtan, with the fist pumping, barefoot, leg flailing guy and all the other odd souls that found ourselves at home here on a Friday night. I decided I'm going to stay till the very end, till the last song is sung. I realize whether I spend two hours or three hours or twelve hours, I really don't have anything more important or better to do, and I wonder, “What if the last few moments are my favorite moments of the entire experience?”
Isn't this what it's all about? If you bother to show up, why not bother to follow through, all the way to the end. Even if you don't like it. Maybe, just the following through is all that is needed. Trust that the medicine is working. Even if it doesn't feel totally blissful in the moment. Trust that the medicine is working. You don't have to work the medicine. Let the medicine work you.
And wow, I haven't wanted to write so much in weeks, maybe months, so that in and of itself, is medicine. I'm going to stay till every last chant is chanted, even if I have to sit next to the fist pump guy.
Towards the end of the concert, that lasts over three hours, Gina sings one of her favorite songs.
“Because the One I love lives inside of you, I lean as close to you as I can..... Because the One I love lives inside of you, I lean as close to you as I can. I love you. I love you. I love you.
May we see as love sees, may we hear as love hears, may we speak as love speaks....”
My internal voices are screaming "Oh my god, we really are singing Kumbaya and holding hands. JESUS!"
And I guess this is when I give up, or give in. Everyone draws close to the persons beside them and we wrap our arms around our neighbors and start swaying to the song, singing “Because the One I love lives inside of you, I lean as close to you as I can..... Because the One I love lives inside of you, I lean as close to you as I can. I love you. I love you. I love you.”
Say it outloud:
That pattern I've been living for decades — it can change in an instant.
Say it outloud:
Sometimes I just have to trust that the medicine is working.
The medicine is working. I trust.
Sometime around Christmas this year, my parents had sent me a CD of old pictures from my childhood. They asked multiple times, “had I opened the CD? Had I looked at the pictures?”
“No”, I said each time. I don't have an external disk drive for my MacBook, and though it seemed important to them, I didn't have any emotional need to see the pictures, I've seen all the pictures in the old albums before, I had other things on my mind, and then I had moved, and I packed the CD and found it again when I unpacked, but I still hadn't bothered to find a disk drive to view the pictures on the CD.
This weekend my aunt sent me a dropbox of the pictures on the CD that I hadn't bothered to open. I sat there at the kitchen table shuffling through each frame, crying, feeling really alive.
My young parents, with me. I looked like a happy child. The pictures showed a happy childhood with loving parents. I've spent a lot of time being an unhappy adult.
Say it outloud:
That pattern I've been living for decades — it can change in an instant.
Say it out loud:
Sometimes I just need to trust that the medicine is working.
The medicine is working. I trust.
Because the One I love lives inside of you, I lean as close to you as I can.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
