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Sikkim pilgrimage, part 2

There is a gold Avalokiteshvara centrally placed in the main room of the temple. This androgynous looking figure has hundreds of gold and white hands reaching out in gestures of compassion.  In this central room in the monastery, a gathering place,  an older monk chants and beats a drum while a second young monk looks on.  The chanting monk is turning pages in a chant book as he goes.  Around Avalokiteshvara is a gold dragon holding an egg and thunderbolt.  There is also an animal with a lion’s head and a mermaids tale.  The powers of nature seem to be at Avalokiteshvara’s disposal. There is a picture of His Holiness Domange Yangthang in the room. I don’t know who this kind looking man is but his photo is in most of the monasteries that we visit in Sikkim.  

A statue of Buddha is centrally placed,  flanked by his two main disciples.  Floral and leave paintings adorn the top most layer of the high walls, next to the ceiling.  Red, orange, blue, green,  and yellow silks warp around numerous ancient texts that are looking like loafs of broad stacked neatly in cubbies all along the main temple wall. Each cabbie is outlined with deep red and gold.  The shades of colors used are all mature, nothing pastel or soft and there is no beige or neutral color anywhere. These are shrines of rainbow colors, these monasteries all over Sikkim

 Various figures are painted into the lower cabinets on the altar area wall–a lion standing up on two hind legs, his arms upraised like a human and his face happy or maybe laughing.  There is an elephant and  a horse painting. All the artwork figures are framed  in floral paintings.  There are two red pillars, holding up the second floor, which are beautifully carved.  Thankas, statues, and posters all about leave no blank space for the imagination and no zen emptiness.  

The tempo of the drum the monk is playing is perfect for meditation. It’s between 4-5 beats per second which is known to stimulate deep meditation, creativity and imagery and is used in the shamanic journeying around the globe, to induce blissful journeys to the hidden inner worlds.  Taking the opportunity, I close my eyes, listen to the drum and and chant, and go on a journey. Using the method I learned from Sandra Ingerman, a teacher of modern transpersonal shamanism, I journey through a hole in the earth, entering through a tree trunk, traveling down a cave like tunnel in my mind, or is it happening in my heart or spirit, probably all three.  The first being I see is one of those fierce protective Tibetan Sikkimese deities.  The deity takes me to a body of water. I look into a pool of water and don’t see my own face but that of a golden Buddha. I seem to drift inside of the mantra “The Jewel in the heart, the lotus” is one that has meaning for me. As if my body dissolved into that jewel.  Part of my awareness is tracking what the monk is doing in the room and I can hear that his ritual is coming to an end, so as I retrace my steps back through the tunnel I entered. Before I head get completely back an old man appears  and stops me, saying, “you are being called to this.”  I pause awhile and take in his words, then continue onward up through the cavernous route to the surface of the earth. I open my eyes to see the monk finishing up and putting away his ceremonial book and drum.  

Every village we pass through on our journey seems to have prayer flags blowing in the wind. Numerous individual residents have the flags and others seem to placed by the government.  Without knowing at first that’s what we are doing, Keith and I  complete a traditional Buddhist pilgrimage, in Sikkim, which begins at Dubdi Monastery, near Yuksom, and includes Norbugang Chorten, Rabdentse Ruins, Sanga Choeling Monastery, Khechiopalri Lake, and Tashiding Monastery. Tashiding  is considered the most sacred.  We had told the travel company we had plenty of nature and mountains and home and what we wanted to see in Sikkim was Tibetan Monasteries. They created an intinerary that was sacred unbeknownst to us!

Many of the places we visited were surrounded in legends. Khecheopaldri means “mountain of blissful heavens.”  The story of Khecheopaldri Lake goes as follows. One day an indigenous or Lepcha couple witnessed a pair of conch shells descend form the sky and enter the ground. Thereafter, an immense spring of water erupted and formed the lake, which is said to be the home of Tshomen Gyalmo, the protector nymph of the Dharma. The lake is also considered to be the footprint of the Goddess Tara.  It is considered the wish fulfilling lake–that what you ask for comes true.  We were on our way out from the lake, full of tourists, on foot, when I stopped to make my wish. One of our new friends we had met at the lake was urging me to hurry up, so I had only a second to pause. My rushed wish was to make others’ happy.  

Thousands of people must have taken the route that we did to these sites over the centuries. Although we saw even more Buddhist places than the several ones on the traditional pilgrimage listed above, I had a sense of completeness after we visited the traditional last stop on the pilgrimage, Tashiding Monastery.  There was a quality of stillness there  not to be matched anywhere after that. The beautiful artwork at Tashiding was mostly faded and very difficult to view, being so old, which was the case at more than one place.  Nonetheless, the increasingly familiar themes could be discerned-the florals, animals, colors, buddhas of various kinds both peaceful and ferocious.  I liked the ferocious ones. They looked like they could tow the line of truth and get a person out of a heap of illusion.   With the fire and the swords, I believe they could cut through the crap.

In the shrine rooms we visited in Sikkim, there were no photographs allowed and people were in silence.  I did what people do on pilgrimages, I prayed, or simply thought about, or, just held in my heart as intention, my highest aspirations–to be of service, to bring happiness to the world and life.

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Tibetan Sikkim pilgrimage part 1

The final leg of our journey, not counting French Normandy, turned out to be the place I would miss the most: Sikkim.  When we reached Darjeeling, once a part of Sikkim but no longer in its borders, it became my new favorite place in India. The slower pace, the mountainous terrain, the hints of Tibet were calming.  At the popular tourist trap, Tiger Hill, outside of Darjeeling, we experienced a moment of collective joy in the crowd gathered to watch the sunrise.  We also saw a small bit of the third highest mountain in the world, Kachendzonga, while watching the sunrise at Tiger Hill.  

Our tour of Tibetan Monasteries began in Darjeeling. The first one we visited, interestingly, had the name of a Coloradan name “Woody,” and his birth and death dates listed on the side of a building he donated to the monastery. The name of the monastery was XXX.  Here I began to acquaint myself with the images of Buddha and all the colors and mystery of the Tibetans.  

When we reached the city of Pelling, then Pelling became my new favorite city in India.  The Garuda Hotel were we stayed had good vibes and as luck would have it, we were given the rooftop cottage, a kind of penthouse you could say, at a cheap rate in the off season. We were the only ones up there. Our little cabin on the roof was next to the family shrine room, full of Buddhist materials and a white stone pyramid shaped structure oven type structure used to burn incense in the Buddhist tradition.  Statues and thankas lined the little family shrine room and there was a central altar.  

In the Tibetan monasteries we visit, I am drawn in by the colorful mandalas and scenes painted on every wall.  Dhorjee Phur Pa is a three headed deity with a crown of skulls and jewels. She has three eyes, one in the center of the forehead. One of the heads is red, the other blue, the third white.  All the faces are bearing their teeth with fangs. This male deity is embraced by a blue goddess who wraps a leg around his groin. He wears a tiger skin and flames rise from his three heads.  One of his hands hold a katanga, or trident, a symbol of x, which is used to root out the three poisons in Buddhist thought--greed, anger, ignorance (of our true nature).  There are three heads on the trident, one of them a fleshless skull, representing victory over the three poisons.  He has six arms and six feet. One hand holds a dorje, a thunderbolt.  Two hands are together in prayer in front of him and holding an instrument of some sort upon which is both a human head and a metallic sphere. It’s as if Dorjee Phur Pa has severed the false head of the false self and there it is.  A bloodied human figure appears to be being crushed by this deity who is considered to be a fierce protector of the Dharma and a fierce protector of the once independent country of Sikkim, which was “annexed” by India.  There is an elephant behind the deity suggesting massive strength.  

    Guru Dragmar is a deity depicted with one head though he is similar in spirit to Dorjee Phur Pa. His body is red, his crown lined with skulls and severed heads. He wears a tiger skin and is straddled by a dakini or female goddess.  A Tibetan monk has told me before that the male represents method and the female wisdom and that is the meaning of the apparent sexual union.  He told me people viewing the sexual looking images get the wrong idea about what they mean. The union is of wisdom with “methodology.” 

    These figures seem to represent ferocity in taking up the dharma, a fierce spiritual warrior dimension of consciousness.  They are in stark contrast to the serene depictions of Sakyamuni Buddha, or simply the Buddha, sitting serenely in lotus posture.  The Buddha is all golden and holds a bowl of jewels.  Dragons flank him on both sides and a garuda, or magical bird, perches nearby overhead.  Avalokiteshvara is another peaceful looking Buddha we see.

  We start to get used to the image of Padmasambhava with his wide open eyes and flaring eyebrows. Padmasambhava brought Buddhism to Tibet from India.  Like the fierce deities he also holds a trident adorned with human heads. His earlobes are very long, symbolizing his enlightenment.  One senses there is no compromise with Padmasambhava, he lives the truth. Of the two types of being, the peaceful versus the wrathful, I  am drawn more to the strong wrathful types.  You could scare a lot of falsehoods away with those more fierce types and protect your spirit.  

I have a lot to say about Sikkim and there are many details that I captured, so the is just part 1 of this post.  part 2 is coming soon.  

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Phool Chatti Ashram, Rishikesh, Keith in the white ashram preferred attire.

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yoga/aryurveda retreats in India

Our next stops involved rest and healing. Having completed about a month of being performing  and teaching musicians, we entered a different part of our journey.  The highlight of our stay at “Brother Ayurveda & Yoga” was the two hour massages received several days in a row. Keith commented in was like being nurtured by mother, to be touched like that.  The food was simple and the drink only herbal. Desert was watermelon.  The protein was gram flour, chickpea and curd.  I continued my practiced of singing daily which had begun sometime during our trip and I enjoyed exploring lost resonance regained in my voice. A palpable energy was activated in me in the singing. I hadn’t experience my solitary or solo voice in that way in years it seemed and I didn’t want to lose it again, hence the everyday practice.

After the week at Brothers we went to Phool Chatti Ashram north of Rishikesh. It’s a well trodden safe choice for travelers. Before we reached the ashram we spent a night or two at Parmarth Ashram, on the holy Ganges River, right in Rishikesh, where there happened to me an Indian Classical Music Festival taking place.  We soaked in the music, and the atmosphere of Parmath, which was known to us from a previous visit.  Keith commented that the main musician we heard there was some of the most profound he’s ever heard.  We attended aarti, prayer and singing, on the Ganges, and kirtan.

Of note was the talk given by a resident teacher at Parmarth.  During the talk she field a question about terrorism.  She sees the solution as creating plenty around the world for when there is dissatisfaction and a lack of resources then the door is open for indoctrination and radicalization.  Undoing poverty and unjust circumstances is the way to keep people from being susceptible to radical mindsets.  She and the resident swami at Parmath had sent a letter to George Bush before he bombed Iraq. In the letter, they pointed out that, with the money that would be spent bombing Iraq, world poverty could be eliminated globally!

At Phool Chatti Ashram, we took part in the eleven hour a day program, including silence, vegetarian food, yoga, meditation, chanting.  It changed our life and we are still getting up in the morning, at home now in Denver, to do a period of yoga, pranayama and meditation.  Stimulants like coffee and alcohol bother us post-retreat and we shy away from them, preferring the ramped-down slightly blissed feeling of  living in balance.  The two retreats basically back to back shifted our lives.  I started to have a sense of my direction at this point in my life,  a vision for my life, during my stay at Phool Chatti, when in the quiet evening hours of silence I would pose the big questions to myself and wait for answers to chime in from my heart.  

Our next leg would be to visit various Tibetan monasteries in the Indian state of Sikkim, bordering Tibet, Bhutan and Nepal. 

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buddhist sites Kathmandu, FEb ‘18

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Kathmandu, Feb ‘18

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Kathmandu Feb ‘18

The airplane landing into Kathmandu doesn’t disappoint. It’s the harshest drop to the runway I ever remember experiencing in an airplane, a real jolt.  This is an international airport with no instruments to help the pilots land. They have to do it by sight. Even recently since this writing there was a significant accident  at the Kathmandu landing strip.  Several major accidents have occurred here over the last couple of decades. They have the worst reputation of any airport in the world with whole planes full of passengers losing their lives in this place. Nevertheless, as we make our way off the plane and into the airport, the laid back atmosphere and warm greetings work on my heart. I like this place as a welcome relief from the frenetic and overcrowded India.  We are greeted with “Namastes” and smiles.  The air temp is cool in a pleasant way.  

Kathmandu would be a place where I would speak my truth over and over as well as feel a little trapped.   As we leave the airport and are greeted by the hotel shuttle service, a few young men whisk up our luggage and take it to the van.  Then, when we look at them blankly when they want a tip, they turn angry. We thought  they were with the hotel and the tipping happened later The hotel van driver smiles benignly at this interchange. It turns out the luggage carriers were not with the hotel but are youth than hang out around the airport, small-time entrepreneurs hoping to make a few coins in tips.  Keith and I are culurally confused for a moment. “Should we tip them” we ask our driver, as we consider the situation of people grabbing our luggage like magicians engaging in some kind of slight of hand with tourists.  Unemployment is widespread in Nepal with some 2400 Nepalis leaving the country per day to work abroad.   The streets are empty as we arrive late night to the Yellow Pagoda Hotel and Conference Center.

I spend several days discussing theology  at the International Conference of Unitarian Universalists at the Yellow Pagoda.  The ground rules are laid out for our full days of small group discussions, celebrations and worship services: listen respectfully to other participants without commenting on what you just heard, consider and determine the four foundations of your faith and beliefs, and some other things hard to recall.  I spend a few days fearfully considering the people across from me at our small group discussions, taking a breath, and speaking my truths into the room, even though I know my views tend to be met with a negative reaction in Unitarian circles, at least in the U.S.   I think there is a loving source that is guiding and surrounding me I say.  I perceive that at death we return to the light.  My beliefs are informed by my various mystical moments I’ve experienced over the years and through my practices of yogic, shamanic, Sufi, and more--a hodgepodge--of  disciplines.  My creativity forms one of the four foundations of my faith because as I engage in it the universe reveals itself to my heart. That fourth foundation of my faith I list as compassion, doing good, service, love, basically the Judeo-Christian ethic which no one can argue with.  While most of my views and felt experience are discordant with the people at my discussion tables who are my same race, color and geographic background, white people from the West; curiously, I am right in sync and find resonance with a few women of color around me--a petit African American Unitarian from Rwanda, who says that at death that “we go to the place of all souls;” and, an even more diminutive women from India who shares some similar common views. We make an odd looking trio at our table of discussion, me a tall white aging male Westerner with these two women from Africa and India.  The other white Western men at the table, who appear a little bit older than me, all chime  in in consanance with their mechanistic, atheistic views as if they have all been molded by the same culture, religion, family unit, etc.  The theology professor, from Chicago, present at the conference running our discussions and another person, a prominent minister in Unitarian Universalism,  look at me with a twinkle of interest and acceptance over the Creativity piece of my beliefs, finding something in that statement provocative for them.    My heart is nervous and stressed speaking things that I generally leave unsaid in what I perceive as a general hostility in the Unitarian world towards, shall we say, in general, diversity.   After a week at the Yellow Pagoda, we, Keith and I, move onto my our next assignment, which is musical, as was our role at the Unitarian conference, where we had provided some music along with many other musicians in attendance.

Our next role in Kathmandu is at “Answer Nepal,” defined as American and Nepali Student and Women’s Educational Relief, where Keith gives a talk titled “Happiness” to a large group of college students.  To Illustrate Keith’s points, I sing “Wonderful World,” the old American standard--  “I see skies of blue, red roses too, I see them bloom for me and for and I think to myself...what a wonderful world!”  I sing this to illustrate the principle of Gratitude, which is one of Keith’s talking points for his “sermon,” if you will.  My singing skill is more brilliant at this event than anything in my  memory over the past decade of so.  It’s as if I have re-found my voice, which was lost somewhere or dormant.  Keith and I teach music daily for a few hours a day to the college students, which we both perceive turns out to be not the best use of our time or anyone else’s time involved for that matter.

In Kathmandu, at Boudinath Stupa, I walk into my first Tibetan Monastery of many I would visit on our nine week journey in India, Nepal and Sikkim.  I get my first glimpse of a figure in a red hat on the monastery wall, a painting I am wondering about. I would see the figure over and over and it would become etched in my memory.  This was Padmasambhava, the person who brought Buddhism to Tibet!  I relished in my first visions of the non-stop, covering-every- nook-and-cranny paintings and designs, using bold colors, that characterize Tibetan Buddhist monasteries, and I reflected on a past life sense I have of having been a monk within a Tibetan culture.  I felt very stimulated and taken by the notion of the lotus-jewel in the center of the heart, which is both a mantrum--”om mani paddle hum”--and a belief or point of view in Tibetan Buddhism, that there is this kernel of goodness and light within the human being that can be found within and expressed and lived into creation.  Couldn’t I be subsumed into the lotus-jewel in the center of the heart?  Wouldn’t that be the ultimate destiny?  To be that jewel.  This feeling would follow me around, like an energy chasing me or dancing with me on the rest of our pilgrimage over the next couple of months.  

We circumnambulated Bhoudinath Stupa in Kathmandu, the largest Buddhist stupa in the world and, I believe, a unesco world heritage site, as well as definitely a major pilgrimage site.  While we were tucked away in our hotel conference, Shivaratri was happening, an event which brings twelfth thousand or so pilgrims every year from India for a Hindu celebration.  The main Hindu center for Shivaratri in Kathmandu is along the Ganges, for we are near her, as we were in Varanasi just a couple weeks prior.  This is her place farther up into the Himalayas.  Legend says that the Ganges River and a couple of other holy rivers in this region are none other than Siva’s long locks of hair falling down from the high Himalayan Mountain named Kailish.  I had remembered hearing just recently while we were in Varanasi that many people were on their way from Varanasi to Kathmandu, I think especially that Sadhus, the wondering holy men of India,  to participate in Shivaratri; and magically, or synchronistically, we too had left from Varanasi to go to Kathmandu also, along with this migration of souls across the Indian-Nepali border for this yearly time of pilgrimage.

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Varanasi,India Feb ‘18

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Varanasi,IndiaFeb’18

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Varanasi Feb ‘18

We start our 9 week “sabbatical” in Varanasi, a holy city in India where some people come to die, believing that to die here will take them to Nirvana or liberation.  In this place, my prayers go out with thousands of others--Hindus, Muslims, yogis. “I want to be of service, to bring joy to this world” I intoned amid all the myriad sounds emanating across the misty sky of this city. In the early morning, the Muslim prayers begin first followed later by the Hindus.  Over  loud speakers, broadcasted from the various Mosques, the Islamic prayers sound as if they are coming from a mournful people, a people crying out for mercy and salvation. In some moments, I feel disturbed by these melancholy sounds. It is pre-dawn. I am on the roof of the Shanti Guest House, close to the burning ghats or funeral pyres, and there is smoke in the air mixing with the sounds.  As the Muslims finish, the HIndus fill up the space, adding bells and sanskrit chants. It’s as if they have taken turns.  at 530 am we meet the boatman to take us along the Ganga.  The oarsman says, “I am happy. I have what I need.” It’s a sentiment Keith and I would hear again on our trip and a quality we would observe. We would meet people on our journey who were content, resigned, happy or a mixture--or perhaps a pure form of one of those qualities--it’s hard to judge or say. While the middle class in India is reported to be as large as the entire population of the United States, the poor people in India are immense in number and everywhere, as many are aware. The oarsman has a simple life of taking tourists and pilgrims twice a day along the expanse of the river Ganga.  He points to his houseboat where he lives on the holy river quite near to the cremation grounds.

As he rows us along the river in a small boat along with two other tourists he explains,” I drink from the Ganga everyday,” as he scoops a little water into this hand, reaching into the river and taking it to his lips.  “She is my mother, she is divine. I have no fear of pollution.”  He tells us about the categories of people that do not have to be cremated before being released or buried in the Ganga: babies, because they are already holy; pregnant women, because they are holy also; those who died being bit by cobras, because that’s considered a divine death; and sadhus, who are the orange clad wandering ascetics that one sees about India.  These types of people are already pure when they die he informs us.  All others must be purified by cremation in order to be liberated after death.

The oarsman points to the old folks homes and hospices along the river as we pass them, saying that those who are near death come here because to die here is to go to nirvana.

We are a stone’s throw at one point from the cremation grounds, where we are told don’t take pictures, because it’s a holy place, and because we might get stones thrown at our boat if they see as with a camera. The grounds are filled with smoke, small funeral pyres and people chanting and praying. The fires are orange in the pre dawn light like the garb of the sadhus.  

Later, in the small alleyways of Varanasi, we pass urgent parties carrying dead bodies covered in cloth on stretchers, rushing their charges to cremation grounds to be buried as they chant “hari om hari om” very quickly and without pause over and over. 

We hear there is beautiful classical Indian music in Varanasi and we search for it, only to find one lone flutist in a restaurant one evening whose melodies are beautiful and moving.   I feel too shy to reveal I play the flute or to offer to play something, nor do I form any connection to the talented musician we hear, not finding out their name or contact info or anything.  I love his playing. It is very alive. I feel dejected that I am not studying bansuri currently, but I note that he holds the flute the same way I do, plays the very exact size and key of flute and uses his hand in the same manner that I do to cover the holes on this expansive instrument.  The fingers kind of splay out and I have to cover the holes with any part of the finger possible, not the tips, to play the large unwieldy concert flutes of Indian music pitched in the key of E.  He plays out of one side of his mouth like I do and the flute angles down, not perpendicular to the mouth and head, which happens with some flutists, especially if the shape of your lips don’t allow you to blow through the center of your lips. I feel connected to the flutist, though we don’t speak, but only smile and gesture goodbye at the end of our listening. 

My most joyful moment in Varanasi was  improvising on flute on the ghats, or stone steps, leading down to the Ganges, one morning.  These moments of playing flute would repeat themselves throughout my nine week journey across Nepal, Sikkim and other parts of India, and would form the highs of my journey.  

Everyday in Varanasi, Rajneeshi, the visiting yoga teacher to the hotel, who makes his rounds drumming up business at various hotels, meets us for yoga. We are staying at a hotel listed in all guidebooks but I don’t recommend it, between the bedbugs and the food related illness we experience eating at the hotel restaurant.  A local restaurant owner explains that the place is not what it used to be, this hotel--after the son took over running it from the original owner, the father-- and many people move on from it after staying  a day or so to better hotels. The daily yoga sessions are among my happiest hours spent in Varanasi,  in part because the yoga includes pranayama, meditation and also simple warm up stretches!   (Yoga class in the United States are just a shadow of the complete or integrated yoga still available in India.) Rajneeshi the yoga teacher has a little land in Gorakpur, his home town, where he wants to open a kind of ashram.  He invites me to come to Gorakpur on our next visit.  He is scrambling trying to make a living I think amid the hotels of Varanasi.  In the hotel lobby, his father’s picture is on the wall.  Rajneeshi’s father was the original yoga teacher at this hotel and he passed the yoga tradition to his son.  As mentioned, the hotel is also run by the son of the former owner.  We would hear again in India of professions being passed down through the family during our stay. Rajneeshi makes a pitch for more money to come his way from us before we leave and pulls out a story about his sick mother and wanting to build his own ashram in Gorakpur.  I don’t recall at this writing what we did in terms of giving more coinage. 

We left Varanasi, Keith and I, deciding to discard the idea of cheap hotels. I was sporting lots of bug bites on my ankle and lower legs and wondering if little creatures had borrowed in their to live.  We had tasted the prayers, chants, sounds and sights and yoga of India and would continue on now to Kathmandu Nepal before returning for more of India in a couple of weeks. Next post: Kathamandu. Correction--next post, pics from Varanasi, maybe an audio recording, then Kathmandu.  

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the journey with music at end of life

today I went to the nursing to see someone I’ll call Martha, who I have been visiting weekly for three years.  She had died since I had seen her last week and I didn’t know that.  Arriving at her room, her belonging were all gone and the facility handyman was in there doing some work, crouching down on the floor with a hammer or something in the spot where Martha’s bed use to be.  Last week, Martha hadn’t opened her eyes when I sat with her and played the flute. she may not have even known I was there.  Last week, on my last viist I had played for soft and gentle amorphous improvized melodies on an alto or large bamboo flute with a mellow sound, in order to match the mood in the room, to match Martha’s closed eyes and blank expression. But when I had first met Martha a few years ago she was anything but quiet. she gave me a list of Italian tunes she wanted me to learn to sing and return to sing to her, which I did weekly on Wednesdays for some hundred and some weeks, whatever three years times 52 weeks would me. I sang Maria Elena, O Solo Mio, Ave Maria, Spanish Eyes, Arrivederci Roma, That’s Amore, Santa Lucia, and others.  She preferred that I sing rather than play flute.  The disease that had been slowly claiming her over our visits had reached its conclusion.  Her voice had slowly weakened to where I couldn’t make out her words over the past few months. she stopped making requests--for the curtains to be adjusted, the fan to be adjusted, the door to be closed.  As has happened before with people I have visited for several years, I sensed her possible imminent passing, and without even thinking about it much, I had played the things I had been trained to play for hospice situations, for when people are barely conscious, and I said goodbye, imagining her merging with the light.

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Native flute helps a child breathe

Today I played for a young man in a hospital room. I had my Irish flute and my Native flute.  When I played the Native flute with its spacious melodies which lack a beat you can dance to or pinpoint, I watched as the young man  took  a few deep breaths and a broad smile came over his face. Ah, the power of music to relax

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Sit up, like on a horse, to avoid pain from piano playing

Today, I suddenly remembered the voice of Petronel Malan, the fabulous South African pianist, telling me "to sit up, like on a horse" when at the piano. She said this after watching my posture as I was playing in 2006 or so.  I had forgotten, she's right, sitting up like that changes my biomechanics, and much mechanical stress on the flexors of the forearm is relieved from sitting up, as if on a horse at the piano bench.

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Bansuri Flute Meditation "Harvest Moon Eclipse" 10/14

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music practice, the tao of music

Today I re-notice that when I can't visually discern music notes on the page, as fingers strive to find the right hand position, that I can shift my attention to a hand shape and remember that kinesthetically, and forget about visually processing that moment of music in order to play it. This happens at the piano--I am reading all the passages of notes just fine then there is one odd chord or some series of chords and I abandon reading the page and place my attention on my body memory of different subtle hand positions and play the passage kinesthetically. Truth be told after a while most of the music I play is kinesthetically played, or played by feel, aka finger and body memory. I've had a terrific week learning the Tao of Music from the book, "The Inner Game of Music. Abandoning myself to the moment, the sounds of my Irish flute have wafted up to heaven on big swells or winds of emotion. There's been a sweetness in the music as I found the now moment through focusing on emotions in the present moment as I play, freeing the soul to peek out from behind the clouds of the ego-mind, like a small sun playing hiding and seek in the sky. My playing has had moments of being freed from its shackles. On the other hand, at another instrument, the piano, I set the metronome to 50 beats a minute to learn to moderate difficulty scores, as this is one of the only ways I know to learn complex scores, that is, to play them slow as molasses, so slow I have to hold myself back and stop myself from speeding up; yet at this snail's pace music I can't master immediately is mastered. And I studied music scores away from the instrument, mimicing the three ways of practicing touted by Joseph Hoffman: at the piano with the music, away from the piano with the music; and away from the piano without the music. I fall asleep and become bored. I've heard of pianists at Julliard practicing scales while reading a book. It's that type of practice, building body memory, placing my awareness on the fine motor movements of the hands, mechanically repeating passages, until a kind of natural glue, so to speak, appears from nowhere and the passage is fastened to my memory. Visually the score, the music notes on the page, and the geometric patterns on the actual keyboard, is considered even a better way. I'll try that tomorrow. All in the name of music, what madness.

[heartflute]

Power of Music for Dementia

This month I visited a lady whom I'll call Mattie in a nursing home. She sang all kinds of songs with me as I played along on flute or sang with her. She knew both melody and words for many old songs, yet when I picked up her "memory scrapbook" located in her room she didn't recognize her own son. Pics in the book were labeled and identified with tags like "Julian, Mattie's son." Mattie looked at Julian's pic and said "that's not my son."