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A Shot of Shakti

Last night I went to record kirtan with Dave Stringer at Kula in Santa Monica. For the uninitiated, kirtan is a form of call-response chanting of sanskrit mantras. It's roots go back 500 years to Renaissance India. The chants are both led and accompanied by musicians and singers with traditional raga instruments. Each chant begins at a slow tempo and accelerates into a rhythmic locomotive and accompanying ecstatic state. It's not unlike a great gospel experience. 

I was introduced to Dave Stringer's work by my friend Mark Gorman who often plays bass with him. He wasn't there last night because he is on tour with Krisha Das. They happened to be recording a CD of the evening and although the logistics and constraints of capturing sound inhibited the pacing of ecstasy, it was a privilege to participate and offered and opportunity for performer and audience (a distinction blurred anyway in kirtan) to connect on an alternate level. 

One of the evenings best surprises was my introduction to a woman who I have heard about. Her name is CC White and she has an auspicious musical career. Though Dave was the star of the show, she sat at the apex of the line-up. In her brilliant red turban and her warm presence, she was the soft sweet center of a chocolate covered cherry. If Dave was the brain, and the drummer was the bones, CC was the heart. Her beautiful voice added a rich, sensual undercurrent — a subtle femininity. And though every person in the room last night felt the rhythm pulsing through their body, it seemed to originate in CC. She seemed a font of luscious, creative life-force.

The word Shakti comes from the Sanskrit shak — "to be able". It is the sacred and primordial creative force, the mother goddess, the source of all. She's that deep earthy energy that makes you at once become lanquid and energized. Acutely aware of existence yet consciously on the brink of transformation. No more exciting place to be, really.

After the show I had the opportunity to hang with CC for a while. There was a small group of us basking in the sensual energy of the evening. In her I recognized what I love about my favorite women — a combination of strength, softness, confidence, vulnerability, sagacity and authenticity. She is the kind of woman who makes me proud to be her sister. Thanks, CC for the gifts you bring.

Namaste.

Conscious Detachment and Kali Ma

An old and dear friend of mine, Mark Gorman, plays bass with Steve Ross at Maha Yoga for a chant. The cynical part of me was skeptical that anything like this could be done with authenticity in Brentwood. There are more than a few posers in the crowd, and several people who appear to have been hooked up to a silicone drip. It is, after all, L.A. But the vast majority of the 150 or so people seem to genuinely want to be there to connect with each other and a cosmic energy by a collective surrendering to something other than ourselves. The studio is lovely, the musicians explode the joint and I swear the building levitates a few feet off the ground. I have started to feel about these chants, I think, the way some people feel about church. It's a feeling I never seemed to achieve at temple, though I tried. When Mark said "chant", I expected something much more esoteric. Ravi Shankar or a room filled with saffron-robed monks droning in monotone. Maha chants are much more like a Hindu hootenanny, a Rama revival. Stirring, comic and cathartic.

Looking back on my life in the past year, you might think that I invoked the great mother Kali Ma. She is often misunderstood to be the Hindu goddess of death and destruction. She is a scary gal, usually depicted with the whites of her eyes staring confrontationally out of her dark blue face. She holds a sword in one hand and a freshly severed and bloody head in the other. Her impeccable fashion sense is evident in the garland of skulls she's chosen and a skirt made of dismembered arms. Trash and Vaudeville eat your heart out!  While Kali Ma's energy is strong and runs deep, she is not maliciously destructive. She lives to bring death to the ego and its deluded view of reality. She kills attachment to the physical, thus liberating intention to find truth. 

One of my yoga teachers recently used the word "grabby" when describing the feeling of the ego trying to control reality. It's a description that works for me, as I often feel that I am trying to hang on to something that is slipping away. I have had to let go of a lot this year...UH. LOT. And the natural tendency while standing in the wreckage of what used to be one's world is to grab onto what is left and hold on for dear life. Yeah, grabby fits.

I had been out of practice with yoga for several years. The business of bearing children, nurturing a career, building a life, constructing a house and deconstructing a family took me away from the mat. This January I finally found my way back. Before kids, I cut some serious teeth at Larchmont Yoga (now a Yogaworks) in Hollywood. When my daughter was an infant and toddler, I lived in Santa Monica for several years. I practiced regularly at Yogaworks on Montana Ave. I had experienced good yoga and I was spoiled. 

I have lived in the South Bay for 7 years. Beautiful beaches, fab bike path, great public schools, there's a lot to love. Yoga? Not so much. I've tried half a dozen schools in the area and hadn't clicked with any of them. That is, until an old friend moved into the neighborhood. Enter Yogaworks South Bay. It's gorgeous, it's convenenient, it's a perfect fit. The schedule is filled with good classes taught by great teachers. In January I started taking 3-4 classes a week. 

Yoga is a complex philosophy spelled out the in Bhagavad Gita, the primary Hindu scripture. As many as 18 kinds of yoga are defined, only one of which is the physical practice. Each class is a series of poses — asanas — designed to foster strength, flexibility and balance. 

So, I have finally gotten to a point in my yoga practice where I can easily slip into what I call conscious detachment. For someone who is hyperemotionally engaged at all times — no small feat. I often feel like I wish I could take a vacation from myself. Yoga finally does that for me. I have always believed that a healthy relationship requires a balance of intimacy and space. My practice gives me that same balance in my relationship with myself. And chanting has enabled me to return to that state when I am not on my mat. I chant in the car. I chant in the shower. I chant in my head at work when I am fretting about feeling unappreciated and uninspired. I chant when I feel like I am hanging on to feelings for the otherwise perfect man who is emotionally unavailable (yes, my very own Mr. Big). I chant when I worry about money. I chant when I look at the wrinkles between my eyebrows (and it's a helluva lot cheaper than Botox). 

It's time to convince you that no one has fed me Kool-Aid in a tent somewhere in the tropics. By now, my futurist friend Alex in Silicon Valley is shaking his head. He told me New York would revoke my native status if she knew I was chanting in Brentwood. I am sure he is right, but the best spiritual experience she could offer was discovering (at 5am on the way to the Kiev after having been up all night partying) that the cube at Astor Plaza rotates if you push it. Besides, the skull-adorned punks on the Lower East Side don't wear cool skirts made out of dismembered body parts. I'll take my Hindu goddess any day.