The Firebird (2004 article) – a response to the aftermath of terrorism

The Eiffel Tower from Pont Neuf, October 2015

The Eiffel Tower from Pont Neuf, October 2015

As daylight spreads over the scenes of yesterday evening’s unspeakably horrific series of terrorist attacks in Paris, people all over the world struggle to find a response in their own minds and hearts. I’ve seen varied reactions on social media in the past several hours. Most of my friends and acquaintances have answered with a combination of deep compassion, bafflement, and helplessness. Some people have used these recent events to blame religion in general for everything that’s broken in this world. Others have expressed fear and anxiety about traveling in Europe. Luckily, the Parisians themselves have responded beautifully, including rather famously opening their doors to anyone caught out in the open. The residents of my favourite city are strong and committed to one another in the way New Yorkers were in 2001.

The question on many people’s minds is, “What can I do to change anything?”

Eleven years ago, while engaged as solo horn in the Flemish Radio Orchestra (now the Brussels Philharmonic,) we went on tour to Spain right after the atrocious attacks in Madrid. I visited Atocha Station, the site of the bombings, and had a powerful spiritual experience there that taught me something new about healing and transformation. My article on this ran in the German Reiki Magazin. You can read it here. I am including here the original English text. Though my article uses many Buddhist symbols and concepts, I think the feeling behind it is universal. Since writing this, I completed my Reiki master training with Don Alexander in 2006. Mastery is, however, a lifelong journey, and in reality we are all beginners, all the time.

“What can I do to change anything?” Here was my response back then. Perhaps it will resonate with you now.

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The Firebird (2004)S1110031

An experience in the aftermath of the Madrid bombings

In March, my orchestra, the Flemish Radio Orchestra, was invited to perform two concerts in Spain, the last of the two at the Auditorio Nacional in Madrid on March 17. We were quite excited at the prospect of a few days in the sun away from the bleak Belgian late winter drizzle. On the program was Stravinsky’s incomparable Firebird Suite, one of my favorite pieces, and I also looked forward to celebrating my birthday in Madrid.

A couple of days before our departure, I turned on the news and learned that Madrid had been the target of terrorist attacks, with heavy losses of life. I, along with the rest of my orchestra, was heartbroken and also extremely anxious about traveling to Spain, not knowing what to expect, not knowing if it would be safe to go, wondering whether it was appropriate to play a concert in Madrid under those circumstances. I thought about it for a long time and realized that the best response to terror and destruction would be an affirmation of life. Music could bring healing into a place of pain, and I thought, who knows, maybe I could do something with Reiki there that would also help. At the time I had no real idea of what that might be.

At the concert, we began with a moment of silence to show our solidarity with those who had lost their lives and those still living who were injured or grieving, and then we launched into our program. The Firebird is mythologically linked to the Phoenix, who explodes in flame and then rises, reborn, from its own ashes. There is a beautiful passage for the solo horn (my part) at the beginning of the finale that represents this rising: slowly, gently, yet full of power. The melody builds and bursts into a glorious coda. After the concert, I felt the clear need to visit one of the sites of the bomb attacks the next day, to try and make sense of what lies beneath the surface of such destruction, to just be there and find a way to offer healing. If it were not possible to offer healing to the souls who had died there, then at least I could bring healing to my own pain and confusion about this attack. I was motivated by a desire to see, understand, to know, to heal. I hoped that I would know what to do when I arrived.

When I walked over to the front of the Atocha station where some of the worst damage had been, I was greeted by a fence separating the street from massive piles of rubble, twisted metal, construction equipment already clearing away some of the debris. The fence was plastered with poems, photographs of victims, banners and messages from around the world, candles lining the sidewalk – much the same as what I saw at the site of the World Trade Center bombings in New York a few years ago.

This was the external view. Beyond this, I could sense panic, grief, confusion, unrest. The sound of the construction equipment faded in my ears into screams. I stood glued to the spot for about half an hour, fascinated, horrified, just breathing, centering, being there. I opened myself to whatever was there in that moment. It was not the presence of evil but of something else.

As I opened my heart and body, the pain I was sensing so palpably around me came to the inside of me. I became a bowl into which the pain, violence, suffering, rage, and also memory was being poured. And I began to burn.

As I turned away from the scene to go to the botanical gardens for some peace, the pain I felt inside my gut echoed all the pain and loss I had ever known on a personal level, but it was as if I grew much larger to contain the feelings I felt at that moment. It was no longer personal but a great force. I began to burn with the flames of wrath, but it was not wrath at those who had perpetrated the attacks. The rage was a white-hot flashing of light, which burned away something of my individual self as I became a vessel for the collective suffering. In that time, I was both myself and not me – I was something beyond the borders of my identity. Deep wrath and deep compassion, both burning in my breast with a terrible intensity.

A few hundred meters away were the Royal Botanical Gardens of Madrid, and it was here that I walked to be in nature. Underneath my sunglasses, a part of me was weeping. I wandered through the nearly deserted gardens, just being with all that was going on inside me, and eventually came to a beautiful, strong tree (the sign said its native home was in the Himalayas.) I placed both my hands on the trunk of this tree and began very quietly to chant the Kotodama of one of the Reiki symbols. For several minutes I remained like this, and the black sticky heaviness of the suffering in the vessel I had become began to transform. At the still center of the pain was a brilliant point of light, even ecstasy, which spread rapidly to all within the vessel. The pain did not vanish, it was more that at the heart of the pain lay something sacred and holy. Gradually I released the tree and was released from the contents of the vessel, left with a profound sense of peace and gratitude.

The sun shone brightly, and all around me were signs of early spring – bright green leaves, tender new shoots and blossoms. The first bees of the season were gathering pollen. I marveled at how death and life could exist so vibrantly side by side, and at this point I saw a bumblebee on the ground crawling near the base of another tree. I stopped to watch it for a few moments. He was obviously having difficulty moving, struggling towards a twig on the ground. As he reached this twig, he moved one of his legs and then stopped moving altogether. With his death came a wave of understanding and gratitude. It was in the keen awareness of death that I experienced most vividly the power and unspeakable beauty of life.

Having trained for my first and second Reiki degrees in the Takata tradition, I believed that Reiki was this force that flowed gently through myself and all things, bringing light and healing, like a clear stream of water. I learned that my conceptions were rather tame in light of the way I was used in Madrid. Breathing the darkness and suffering into myself, containing and burning it all within, there the healing occurred.

Fudo Myoo is at the very heart of these aspects of Reiki practice, as I have learned from Don Alexander. His rage is inextricably entwined with his utmost compassion. We experience Fudo Myoo as Karma or the world, particularly in its painful aspects.  Through truly living, seeing, working courageously through the most painful experiences of life, we are shown the highest love.

Upon returning home, I was browsing through a book on Japanese painting I had kept from my Japanese art history couse at university, when I found a portrait of Fudo Myoo. His face and bearing had their usual ferocious aspect, and he was surrounded with flames. Yet there was something special about the form of these flames, and as I read the description of the painting, I discovered that they were actually painted in the form of garudas, or the Japanese version of the firebird. After all that I experienced during our orchestra tour with the piece of that same name, I shouldn’t have been surprised.

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Notes:

Fudo Myoo is known in Japan and in other eastern cultures as one of the “5 wrathful kings,” the guardians of the wisdom of Buddha.  Fudo is the central figure of these five – he is also known as the Immovable One.  He sits on a rock with a sword in his right hand and a rope in the other.  He is not the teacher of the Dharma or the Way, is not a meditative Buddha, but is rather the teacher of Karma, of life, of the action of living.  The sword he uses to cut through our illusions about life, and the rope he uses to catch demons, or our nightmares and terrors that come from living.  When we understand his wisdom and message, we can become one with his essence ourselves and be purified through the fire in which he himself sits, one with the cleansing flames. Fudo Myoo is also a shamanistic figure and represents the point of union between Buddhism and shamanism.  He is the patron deity of the martial arts.

Kotodamas are like mantras, but they consist of mostly the vowel sounds of a particular mantra and are especially powerful when used in meditation (or prayer, as I sometimes think of it.)

The garuda is a sort of Phoenix, the holy bird that symbolizes spiritual purification. It heals through consuming poisons and evils and transforming them inside its own body.  It is often associated with Fudo Myoo and is also seen as an aspect of that essence.

(Over)view from the rooftops of Paris

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I’ve just had the pleasure of spending a couple free days in Paris between performances with the OPL at the Opéra Comique.  Our Sunday show fell on my birthday, so Kerry and I stayed afterwards and indulged in an Ethiopian feast at one of our favorite restaurants in the Latin Quarter.  We found a very cute studio through the airbnb website (if you don’t know it, it’s a bit like Craigslist, but you are better protected from scams.)  The view out our window (7th floor, luckily with elevator, which is by no means a given here!) is lovely –  a double rainbow greeted us upon arrival, crowning the Jardin des Plantes right across the street.  Yesterday the master craftsmen at L’olifant Paris whipped my horn back into shape and gave me the opportunity to try some beautiful horns and mouthpieces.

It seems a good place and time to bring a little perspective to the goings-on of the past and future couple of months, especially because I haven’t written a blog for a good long while.  The “doing”/”being” ratio has tipped more to the “doing” side, as it often does when I don’t pay attention to seeking the inner stillness and reflection necessary to feel whole.  Mind you, I love pretty much everything I have been doing lately – playing great music with the orchestra every week, preparing and presenting concerts with the American Horn Quartet, taking Pilates lessons, going to plays and dance productions, and all the normal bits of everyday living.  A huge bonus lately has been to have so much time together with my husband, sadly lacking this time last year with all the traveling.

Lately, though, I’ve found myself walking around in a bit of a daze, not taking everything in.  Other than while playing music, when the habit of years of laser-like focus kick in, the edges seem a bit blurry to scenery, conversations, even the taste of food (for those of you who know me well, that’s a clear sign that something is amiss!)  Even this morning, I had originally planned to go to a museum but feared just drifting by the exhibits without appreciating them.  I go through this cycle often, not realizing it’s happening for a while.  This classic Far Side cartoon says it beautifully:

 

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The trick – the art – to living is in balance (being married to a Libra will teach you a thing or two about that as well!) – especially that between the inner and outer life.  The next few weeks are just as activity-laden as the previous ones, including more performances in Paris, an AHQ tour to the States, Götterdämmerung on Wagner tuba when I return, then brass quintet rehearsals and a Britten Serenade performance etc….  But I am going to do my best to find the inner stillness and perception to be fully present in the big and small moments, including the ones that don’t have a website link attached. But there just may be a double rainbow in the offering.

 

 

 

 

The Zulu Hitchhiker

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Did you ever find yourself in a situation that seemed to be trying to tell you something, but you never discovered its secret? This encounter, during our vacation in South Africa this past April, remains an enigma.

The day after visiting the Anglo-Zulu battlefields of Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift (a few hours’ drive northwest of Durban), Kerry and I set off in our barely adequate rental car from the lodge (think serious 4X4 territory in a Hyundai!) We’d been sleeping in a traditional Zulu beehive hut perched on a ridge overlooking an astonishing valley, where monkeys scampered around on our straw roof and the surrounding vegetation, no civilization in sight. But the middle of nowhere is always somewhere to someone, right? We bade farewell to the friendly manager of the lodge, Bruce, and his associate, Naya, crunching and creeping along the pothole-ridden dirt roads leading back to the “highway” (I say this in the most euphemistic of terms, where pavement was an unexpected and rare blessing.) About 10 kilometers (7 miles) down the gravel path past Elandskraal, we saw a pretty young woman, dressed in brightly colored fabrics, hair tied up in a scarf, holding a pink pocketbook, walking down the road. We had encountered numerous hitchhikers over the preceding days, but up to this point, we hadn’t stopped. On impulse, I suggested we give her a ride, at least up to the main road, where she might be able to catch a bus to her destination. Wherever that might be.
We came to a halt. The woman jogged over to our car and let herself in the back seat, and I asked her where she was headed. At first she just smiled and said nothing . So I pulled out the map we were using and showed it to her, asking, “Are you going to Dundee? Are you going to Ladysmith?” and pointing at each place as I said it. And she stared at the map as if I had given her a bowl of spaghetti and asked her the circumference of the Earth! I inquired about Dundee again since it was the nearest town, but she shook her head. Finally, we heard (I think this is what she said) “Near Ladysmith,” which was 60 km away and the direction we were heading anyway. So she sat very quietly in the back seat with a small smile on her face, and we drove on. I speak a few languages and get by in a few others, but Zulu is not among them…. Every once in a while, I would ask her in English where she wanted us to take her. She didn’t seem to understand, but we managed to exchange names – hers sounded like “Nympha.” It slowly dawned on us that she may never have seen a map before, but she seemed happy with our route. Kerry drove down a rather bumpy (but, wonder of wonders, paved) road leading towards Ladysmith, stopping now and then to avoid the cows and goats wandering in and out of our lane. Eventually I had the idea of calling the lodge and asking Naya, who spoke Zulu, to translate for me and find out where we could take our passenger. I reached Bruce, who put me through to Naya, and then handed my iPhone to the back seat to have Nympha talk to her. At first, she seemed reluctant to take it, then finally put it to her ear. As she spoke to the woman at the lodge, her whole expression changed. She looked irritated, unhappy, tense. After a moment she passed the phone back to me. Bruce was on the other end. “She says she wants to go to Dundee,” (we had just traveled 25 minutes in the wrong direction!) and so we started to turn the car around. Suddenly Nympha grew agitated, put her hand on Kerry’s shoulder, and pointed forward, in the direction we were already going. We didn’t know what to do, but ended up turning around and driving back anyway. It seemed worse to whisk her 60 km away from home because of a misunderstanding. We all sat silently, driving east again, back where we had come from, past the livestock, past the scrubby landscape, and pulled over at the intersection with the main road to Dundee, where a few other people were standing around and where traffic came by in all directions. I pointed north and said, “You want to go to Dundee? It’s that way, I hope you get a ride! Good luck! Goodbye!” Our passenger got out of the car slowly, looking at me with an unfathomable expression in her eyes, then turned away. We drove off, back towards Ladysmith again, wondering what had just happened. We imagined various scenarios. We imagined she was just enjoying the ride – a friend told us that Europeans never pick up Zulu hitchhikers. We imagined she hoped we would take her in and give her a job and a new home. We imagined a secret lover for her in Ladysmith. We wondered if she was running away from an abusive father or husband. But all she had to do was to tell Naya at the lodge that she wanted to go to Ladysmith, or wherever, and we would have taken her with us. Then we asked ourselves if picking Nympha up, driving west then backtracking, had taken us out of the path of danger, of a traffic accident. Or if it led to an encounter that changed her life. Or if it was just weird and puzzling and meant nothing. It felt all the more surreal, discussing it in our high-rise Durban beachfront hotel room that evening, overlooking the Indian Ocean and surrounded by creature comforts.

We will never know, we can never know – and we will probably never see our Zulu hitchhiker again. So why can’t I stop thinking about it, why do I insist on assigning meaning and mystery to a random encounter? Or was it random at all?

Why Your Life Matters | Spirituality & Health Magazine

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After having finished the intelligent, funny, and moving book “Naked in Dangerous Places” by travel writer and television / radio presenter, Cash Peters, I discovered this beautiful article he wrote for Spirituality and Health Magazine. It’s about the magic and miracle of being in the right place at the right time, with the willingness to be an instrument for healing, and to open ourselves to an important part of our purpose. This brief essay resonated within me and is worth taking the time to read.

Hiking the holy mountain – a day on Mt. Kurama

A recent tour with the Ictus Ensemble enabled me to realize my dream of visiting Japan for the first time.  In the middle of our performance schedule was a 2 ½-day block of free time – some of the musicians chose to explore Tokyo, or the beautiful slopes of Mt. Fuji.  Others made a day trip to Kyoto to see the temples.  I took a room in a traditional Japanese-style hotel (called a Ryokan) for two nights in a gorgeous old street in the heart of historic Kyoto.  

 

It had also long been a dream of mine to go to Mt. Kurama, the mountain where Mikao Usui, the founder of Reiki, did his spiritual practice of Shugendo that enabled him to develop his formidable spiritual and healing powers.  Kurama is located about half an hour by train north of Kyoto, though somewhat complicated to reach from my hotel.  As my guide, I had some pages ripped out of a friend’s Lonely Planet Japan book with a tiny map of the Kurama area, an e-mail from my former husband Peter with suggestions where to start my hike and the idea to leave the main trail and take off up the mountain for the true summit, and the help of the owner of the Ryokan (who was rather puzzled why I would want to go up there alone!)  The morning for my journey dawned with clear skies and mild temperatures, a perfect day for a trip to the mountains.  I knew I needed to take a bus from Kyoto Central Station to Demachiyenagi Station and had a couple of bus numbers and a vague route map in Japanese kanji.  After taking out some yen from a money machine at the post office (not as simple as it seems, if you don’t speak Japanese!) and eventually locating the right bus, I was on my way. 

Buying my round-trip ticket to Kurama from Demachiyenagi Station was fun, done in a mixture of phrase-book Japanese, English, pointing and smiling.  The whole time, I had this wonderful, fresh sense of leaving the known behind and venturing into something completely new.  Anything could happen, and that thought filled me with a childlike happiness.  The man at the ticket booth handed me a hiking map of the area, only in Japanese of course, with cute little cartoon figures and drawings of temples, trees, dragons, even cranky little pigs regarding a barbecue pit (!)  The Kurama train wound through a mountain valley, stopping at several stations and revealing foliage that was just beginning to turn the fiery reds and oranges for which the Kyoto region is famous in the autumn. 

Normally while traveling, I do my best to blend in with the locals, but my height and blonde hair betrayed me instantly, not to mention the backpack, camera around my neck, and white sneakers that practically screamed “TOURIST!”  At least I wasn’t gawking at a big silly map with cartoon characters on it (oops, that too.)  Did it really matter that on that day, I was as much pilgrim as tourist?

After leaving the train at Kibuneguchi Station, one stop before Kurama, I walked up a paved road for about 20 minutes before coming to the village of Kibune.  This led to the back entrance of the trail over Mt. Kurama.  Most people begin on the Kurama side at the temple site and work their way towards Kibune.  At the beginning of the trail was a little booth where I paid 200 yen (about $2) to enter the path – I also picked up a walking stick, for which I was soon grateful. 

The beautiful weather meant also that the path shone with a bright sunlight, filtering through trees, giving the nature around me a transcendent, glowing beauty.  One of the first things I saw while climbing was a spot with 2 small stone carvings on them, very old and faded.  The figure depicted was Fudo Myoo, a key figure in certain sects of esoteric Buddhism.  His appearance is fierce, a sword in one hand and rope in the other, with one tooth pointing upwards and another downwards, surrounded by a halo of fire.  He is called upon to aid people in staying on their spiritual path, unmoved by temptations of the world, cut free from their Karma and purified in the spirit of fire.  Fudo has everything to do with the power of Mt. Kurama, and his shrines are found hidden in the mountain forests as well as near waterfalls.  Several years ago, I had an experience of the gifts of Fudo while visiting Madrid just after the terrorist bombings that destroyed Atocha Station and resulted in heavy loss of life – I wrote an article (in German) called The Firebird about what happened to me there which can be found here.  We live so much of our lives in our own illusions; Fudo Myoo represents leaving these illusions behind so that we may see ourselves as we truly are.  This lesson from Fudo found me in a strange way later on my hike. 

The energy on Mt. Kurama was astonishing.   Different sites on the mountain had different vibrations – some places were deep and still, others shimmered, some seemed to have a sort of forward-propelling feeling to them, others hummed in an almost audible sensation through my body and mind.  These are some of the things that moved me: The ancient cedars, their roots twisting impossibly over the trail, sunlight and shadow bringing them into focus, teaching the need to be grounded in, take nourishment, from the Earth.  Patterns of grain in the wood.  Contrast of tree to deep blue sky.  Moss.  Water.  Stone.  Birdsong.  Silence. 

Very few people were on the mountain that day, which I consider to be fortunate for the experience of solitude.  On my map, I could see that I would soon be coming to the Fudo shrine, and I moved with solemnity and reverent anticipation at what I might see and feel.  As I mentioned, I had had the mountain practically to myself ever since entering the western gate and taking my walking stick at Kibune.  Just as I arrived at the Fudo shrine, so did a small but steady stream of people coming from the other direction.  Suddenly in this silent place everyone was smiling at me and saying Konnichi-wa! and offering to take my picture in front of the temple structures.  These Japanese were so amused to see this strange Western lady all by herself that soon we were all laughing.  It was totally unexpected.  It was what it was.  After I moved on up the hill, it came to me that I had been given a lesson there about who I am and about my spiritual path – I am still reflecting upon it.

Later on, around the highest point of the path, I saw another trail that had a chain across it and half a dozen emphatic signs, probably saying “off limits” or some variation thereof.  So of course I had to go.  It was an extremely steep climb with a good deal of bushwhacking, and I was glad of my walking stick.  After about 15 minutes, I came upon a little shrine and behind it a pond; behind the pond was a tall cedar tree perfectly reflected in the surface of the still water.  You could turn a photograph upside down and hardly distinguish between the tree and its mirror image.  As above, so below.  I had the urge to sit down and meditate at the edge of the pool, and then I noticed a woman sitting quietly on a little stone stool deep in meditation herself.  I climbed further up the hill, aiming for the summit of the mountain and the small Shakyamuni Buddha statue located there, but I didn’t find it.  When I returned to the pool, the woman was still there; I departed, not wanting to disturb her.   

Though incredibly beautiful, the main temple site of Kurama-dera seemed somehow anticlimactic after the majesty of the mountain path.  After descending a few hundred steps into the town of Kurama, I found a noodle restaurant and refreshed myself before heading to the onsen, or mineral hot spring spa.  I spent the end of the afternoon in a pool of deliciously warm water, with a perfect view of the mountain I had just hiked, the sun disappearing behind the foliage. 

Taking the train back to Kyoto, gratitude for the day’s adventure brought tears to my eyes.  Someday I hope to go back to Mt. Kurama.  The mountain is full of mysteries and secrets, and I am sure I only scratched the surface.  

Melting – The Sweat Lodge Experience

For many years, I have been fascinated by ritual.  Ritual takes countless forms in cultures around the world, according to the customs and needs of a people.  Through my Reiki training over the last several years, I have come to treasure the transformative power of ceremony, of initiation, of returning to the sacred heart of life  beating just below the surface of our everyday lives. It is good indeed to remind ourselves of this, and often. 

Seek and ye shall find, the saying goes.  I wanted to do something spiritual to commemorate turning 40 and moving on to a new decade, a new stage of life.  So when a good friend told me of a Native American elder who travels around and leads sweat lodge ceremonies, I was excited to have the opportunity to attend one in the Netherlands.  I’d read about the sweat lodge ceremony and had spoken with people who had done one and felt completely cleaned out afterwards, but much of it was still a mystery when my friend and his 3 lovely boys drove me to a remote campsite in the beautiful forest near Nijmegen.  The boys loved the teepee and set about exploring the clearing, even building their own altar of pine cones in imitation of the one from the previous day’s ritual.  A little later, all the participants (there were 19 of us in total, 18 Dutch and one American – that would be me!) began to prepare the site.  The sweat lodge itself is a small, round dome built of branches tied together with layers of woolen blankets placed over the top to keep in the heat.  There is room to sit up but not to stand inside.  In the center of this tiny space is a pit in which the hot stones are placed during the ceremony.  I helped a woman named Marijke carry out the stones from the day before, taking the whole ones to a spot nearby to be used again, and the ones cracked by the intense heat to a special little cemetery in the trees.  The stones at the bottom of the pit were still warm after sitting overnight!  It was a beautiful thing to handle these basalt rocks.  They are called the grandfathers, while the earth in which they are placed is called the grandmother, all that gives form to our earth.  

We lay down straw mats inside the lodge while others chopped firewood and gathered tinder, prepared food, cleaned the campsite, etc.  It took a couple of hours to get everything ready.  Then Ron, who is a Chippewa-Cree from Alaska, and his partner Josie, an English-American woman who was adopted many years ago into the Navajo tribe, gathered us in a circle as the firekeeper lit the bonfire to warm the stones.  We had a beautiful ritual with some singing and welcoming of all the elements for the fire.  Every gesture and word and song, though quite simple, were filled with sacred intention and power – we could all feel it, could feel the space shifting around us from everyday consciousness to something deeper, slower.  

After a break for lunch, at which time I had the opportunity to speak with Ron and Josie and some of the other participants (even in a group of total strangers, I found some of us had mutual acquaintances and friends!) Ron gathered us around to tell us about the coming ceremony and how to make the intense heat your friend.  I figured my frequent sauna visits would prepare me for what was to come, though our local sauna doesn’t plunge us into total darkness in a tiny space crammed up against everyone for such long periods of time!  As Ron spoke, it was clear that he came from a long oral tradition, where storytelling not only paints a picture of some event but also tells those of us listening about ourselves.  It’s like there is one big story of which we all are a part, and a gifted storyteller brings the strands of our own histories together in a beautiful loom.  

We then got changed (wrapped ourselves in towels and sarongs, which we removed later in the darkness to allow the healing heat and steam touch every part of us) and gathered around the fire.  The stones by this point were glowing bright red, and the firekeeper tended the fire all day long, a challenging and physically demanding task.  Before we could begin, Ron needed a woman to help prepare the altar, so he asked me to kneel beside him at the entrance of the little hut.  He had made a mound of earth in which he pressed his thumb around the edges, making a space for the shells I was to place in each of the indentations.  This, if I understood correctly, was to honor and invite the spirits of the ocean, the feminine element of water, to be present.  Ron sang as I took each shell from the leather pouch, held it in my hand to share energy, and set them on the mound.  Then he placed a bear claw and tooth upon the mound – his tribe is very in tune with Bear medicine.  That’s too much to explain in the context of this blog.

There were slightly more women than men at the ceremony, so I sat next to Ron at the men’s side of the hut, with a pair of deer antlers between myself and the man on my right to delineate the genders.  As we entered the hut, each of us threw a bit of tobacco onto the fire and said our name, announcing ourselves.  Then we were blessed as we entered and sat down (not quite enough space to sit cross-legged.)  After we were all seated and the opening words and chants were offered, the firekeeper began bringing in the stones.  Each stone was welcomed with words and a bit of various herbs tossed upon them lovingly, sage and bear root and others that made a marvelous fragrance inside the lodge.  As more and more of the glowing hot stones came into the pit, it began to grow hot indeed.  Eventually the opening to the lodge was closed by a woolen blanket, plunging us into total darkness but for the faint reddish glow of the basalt stones.  Josie and Ron each led half of the ceremony – Josie doing the first three rounds and Ron the last three.  When they ladled the water onto the rocks, we waved the healing steam towards ourselves and rubbed it in.  Each round was dedicated to a separate purification or prayer – first gratitude (each of us in turn spoke of one thing for which we were grateful in our lives), then the giveaway (each offered up one thing in our lives we wished to let go, something we no longer wanted to have as a part of us) then a round in which we said one thing about which we were proud of ourselves.)  Each time, after the circle went around and spoke, more and more water was ladled onto the fire, and beautiful chants filled the air.  I sang along, though I did not know the words.  The music just flowed, and through the singing, I didn’t notice anymore how intense the heat was.  Anyone who needed a break between rounds could leave the hut.  

During the first three rounds, we fasted from water because water had a sacred place in the ritual.  Josie welcomed the spirit of the life-giving water as we passed a bucket filled with cold water around the circle to her.  Each of us was given a cup of the water, and we waited until everyone had some before thanking it and finally having a drink.  I can tell you that water has never tasted so wonderful to me before that moment!  Blessed water, returning us to life!  After we had drunk our fill and poured the cold water over our necks, washed our hands and limbs in it, we passed a bowl of peaches around, each taking a handful to represent the sweetness of life.  I just wanted to bathe in the peaches, they were so delicious!  

Before the last rounds, Ron told us some stories of his people and his childhood.  Here is one of them:  His grandmother told him when he was very young that if he was walking around the woods and found a bush bursting with ripe berries, he should not eat all of the berries but leave some for the bears.  For if the bear came to the bush later and saw that it had once borne rich fruit but none remained, the bear would think that his little brother did not love him very much.  But if the berries were delicious and some remained for the bear, he would know that his little brother loved him very much.  And here is another story: Ron went to visit the grave of his father some years after his father’s death.  He was happy to see that tall grasses grew upon it, as his father was nourishing the land with the gift of his body in the earth.  And he was especially delighted to see clumps of grass that had been eaten, along with many deer tracks.  His father’s favorite food during his lifetime had been deer meat, and he said his father would have been so happy to know he was feeding the deer.  They don’t have the concept of God as we do in our society, so instead the earth and everything in nature is sacred in and of itself and is honored and celebrated.  It seems to me that this is a very healthy way to live, as well as the best incentive to take care of the earth that takes care of us.

Just as our planet is mostly fire with a tiny cool crust upon which we live, so are we beings of fire and spirit with a shell of a body around us.  We pondered this, and it was more poignant as the volcano in Iceland was spewing ash into the atmosphere that very moment.  We need to respect the power of nature.

The last rounds were prayers, prayers for anyone and anything in need, for our loved ones, and lastly for ourselves.  They understand prayer as “making medicine” – sending out concentrated intention to bring what we want into our lives.  The power of attraction is the latest rage in New Age literature, but the native peoples of the world have practiced it in one form or other for millennia.  As we prayed and spoke our desires to the stones all at the same time, Ron, Josie, and another woman who knew the old songs sang to the accompaniment of a gourd rattle.  Josie chose a song from the Caddo Indian tradition, as I had told her that my husband is part Caddo.  Also, the sacred feather used in the ceremony came from the Caddos.

Ron told us that the main purpose of the sweat lodge was simply to melt, to melt out of our heads where we live most of the time, and down into our hearts, that we might live a heart-centered life.  The heat and steam help this process because it is impossible to think after a while in that heat.  At the end of the ceremony, the blanket was lifted, and the first thing I saw was a group of tall evergreens, misty in the dusk, mysterious, luminous, holy.  I felt for a moment that my spirit was a deer wandering silently amongst the trees in the half-light.  

Everyone was very much in their own silence, their own space, after emerging from the sweat lodge.  It felt like crawling forth from the womb and being reborn.  Much I left in there, much I took forth with me.  Though I was covered in dirt and sweat and smoke, rarely have I felt so clean.  After closing the lodge, Ron emerged, called me over to complete my duties at the altar, singing as I removed the shells from the mound and placed them back in the bag.  He blessed me with the sacred feather, holding it over each of my palms where I could feel an intense electrical energy, as well as over my forehead and heart.  There was no time in that moment.  I was a little girl and an old woman, was there and was not there.  It’s hard to explain in words something which cannot really be spoken.  But I shall never forget it.  

We shared a simple meal of soup and bread and cheese in the teepee afterwards, and I was asked to prepare a spirit plate – taking a tiny bit of each different kind of food and bringing the plate to a beautiful spot out in the woods.  Ron told me stories about the Indians in the area where my husband comes from, particularly the story of Quannah Parker, a half-Comanche, half-white warrior who brought the peyote tradition to the States from Mexico and who had a fascinating life.  Some new friends very kindly drove me to Nijmegen, where I caught a train to Arnhem and where my friend picked me up.  Luckily, I was not the only grimy passenger on the Dutch trains smelling like smoke late at night, though probably for different reasons than the others!  

I look forward to doing another sweat lodge when the opportunity presents itself and wonder what will melt away then.  Certainly this ritual was among the most visceral I have ever experienced.  And I have a renewed respect for water, for fire – and a deep gratitude to Ron and Josie for sharing their wisdom and traditions.  A-ho!

Passion and Precision – the joy of chamber music

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It’s been ages – again – since my last blog posting.  Since then, I have been on two chamber music tours, played Mendelssohn and Bruckner, Shostakovitch, Mahler and many other composers, celebrated holidays with family far away, had 2 x-rays for separated ribs (ouch!), joined a new chamber music group, done a 21-day inner retreat, and so much else, too much to write…

First of all, let me say that as far as performing goes, in my opinion nothing beats chamber music for emotional involvement and satisfaction.  It’s the intimacy of bringing a piece to life with a small group of (mostly, but not always) like-minded individuals with common purpose, creativity, and my own personal motto of what I strive for in music, “passion and precision.”  It is the marriage of these two factors that make the magic happen.  I have the great good fortune of counting truly world-class musicians among my chamber music partners, and they are all the finest of human beings as well.  In the last 2 weeks of October, the Virtuoso Horn Duo and Friends (Kerry and me as the VHD, tuba player and brother-in-law extraordinaire Kyle Turner with magnificent pianist and dear friend Lauretta Bloomer on piano, the Friends) embarked upon a 2-week US tour, giving master classes, ensemble coaching, and concerts at the Manhattan School of Music, Penn State University, Malone University in Ohio, Lindsey Wilson College in Kentucky, the University of Missouri, the Cincinnati Conservatory, and the University of Western Michigan at Kalamazoo.  It was sheer pleasure to play together with Kerry, Laurie, and Kyle, all beautifully intuitive musicians with gorgeous sounds and totally professional stage presence.  It was also such a gift to listen to so many fine students in every location where we taught, not to mention the generosity of our hosts.

After our last engagement in Michigan, I flew from Detroit to London to play concerts and give master classes with the Ni Ensemble, my brass quintet.  It was the first tour for our newest member, trumpeter Bob Koertshuis (from Arnhem, Netherlands).  Bob, Heather, Leon, Dave, and I had a truly lovely week together, mixing hard work with lots of laughter, running the musical gamut between Berio at the Royal Northern College of Music in Manchester to Frank Sinatra at a very cold outdoor barbecue charity benefit concert near Cambridge!  We also made a repeat appearance at the Royal Welsh Academy of Music and Dance in Cardiff, followed by the best Thai meal I have ever eaten. In contrast to the breakneck pace of the Virtuoso Horn Duo tour, our schedule allowed us plenty of time to relax, go for walks in the country (one high point, literally and figuratively, was a hike up a hill in the Malverns, revealing a breathtaking view at the top), and of course a few pints here and there.  I treasure the sense of adventure, both musically and personally, in my Ni Ensemble partners, their love of experimentation, brilliant technique combined with great artistry, and the attention to detail carried along by a constant musical flow.  There are moments when we play together that I just want to jump up and shout, “Whohooooo” out of sheer exuberance!  We just had a photo shoot last week and will have our website ready to roll in the next few weeks.

The latest addition to my chamber music groups happened quite recently.  David Johnson retired from the American Horn Quartet, and the other members invited me to join them in his place.  I had been performing with them since last April, when health issues prevented David from taking part in the European tour, but becoming a member of the AHQ is a big thrill.  The quartet has a worldwide reputation and has been around since 1982.  I was only 12 years old in 1982!  Talk about stepping into a legacy…

The AHQ concerts are thrilling from the standpoint of the audience, but I can tell you after experiencing them from both sides of the podium, it’s a constant 10,000 volts on stage.  Before my first full-length concert with them last spring, I was a little nervous, but from the very first downbeat, there wasn’t a single second to think about anything other than the present moment.  The concentration doesn’t let down, ever, during or even in between the pieces – I felt myself constantly aware of everyone else’s parts, how I would articulate this note here, tune that minor 3rd there, breathe in the next phrase, fingers flying, pacing for the high notes, pulling out the stops for the climactic moments and soaring on the lyrical passages, mentally preparing for the next piece while taking bows for the one just completed…

Something I treasure from a fine chamber music performance is the instantaneous, almost telepathic communication between the members of each of my groups, which of course also has a lot to do with thorough preparation and rehearsal.  You have to put in the work to make it sound effortless!  Take huge risks, but only when hugely prepared for them.  The reward at the end of the performance is the ability to share the current of the music with the audience, and at the same time to experience that priceless feeling of emptiness and purity, like a huge wind just blew through my brain and left stillness in its wake.  For me, chamber music is a spiritual experience.  I love it.