Hitching A Ride With the Merriest Band of Gypsies

OS Movie BGC

 

“Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers.
The round pegs in the square holes – the ones who see things differently.
They’re not fond of rules and they have no respect for the status quo.
You can praise them, disagree with them, quote them,
disbelieve them, glorify or vilify them.
About the only thing that you can’t do is ignore them.”
― Jack Kerouac

 

As many of you know, I have spent the last two decades with the most unique musical project EVER, Elvis Schoenberg’s Orchestre Surreal. I’ve always maintained that this orchestra’s creator and conductor, Ross Wright AKA Elvis Schoenberg, was truly paving the way for a new Avant-Garde.

And so, while Bindi Girl Chronicles was created to share stories of both the fictional and non-fictional variety; wax, however poetically, on the creative process; and explore the caves of self-examination ― I’d like to take a moment to do a little promoting of this extraterrestrial entity that I’ve had the honor to creatively be a part of for the better part of my professional life.

For those who aren’t familiar, Elvis Schoenberg has artfully collided musical genres in such a strange-bedfellows way (Prokofiev meets Creedence, Hendrix meets Strauss, The Stones meets Copland…) that simply by having created these juxtapositions, his epic pieces often make social commentary, sometimes without even necessarily intending to, and they ALWAYS offer up a sometimes broad, sometimes subtle, humor. ¹The result is a deconstructing of known and unknown songs with the wit and whimsy of Spike Jones, the complexities of Frank Zappa, and with a little Juan Garcia Esquivel thrown in, while showcasing easily the wackiest wacky-savant orchestra of 30 top studio musicians in Los Angeles. It actually does require a learned crowd to fully get Ross’s thing, even with the sometime foray into the scatological.  It’s a melange of high-brow and low-brow, to be sure!

In our nearly twenty years together we have produced three CD’s.  We’ve played venues the likes of the John Anson Ford Amphitheatre, the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, and the famed Whiskey a Go Go.  We are the recipients of the Los Angeles Music Award for “Best Rock Opera” and “Best Orchestral Arranging” for our scripted show (one of three) Symphony of the Absurd. We’ve been L.A. Weekly’s “Pick of the Week.”  And we’ve had a coveted spot on Music Connection’s Top 100 Unsigned Acts List.  About the only thing we haven’t traversed yet is the movies.  Until now!

I am so honored to announce that the Orchestre Surreal is finally making our movie! Theatrical in a deranged-circus-Fellini-German-expressionistic-John-Waters-burlesque way, the Orchestre Surreal is as cinematic as they come, and we are ready to capture that on film.

Is it nervy of us?  HELL YES!  But I just can’t think of any reason to be anything else.  So, we are leaping!

We’ll be working in collaboration with Who’s On First Films, and with them we’re raising funds through a crowdfunding campaign on Indiegogo.

I invite you to check us out (especially our promo video!), and consider being part of our incredible journey.  There are some really cool premiums for being a contributor and going on this trip with us.  If nothing else, we would deeply appreciate if you would help us spread the word, and share the link and the love.

Deadline is October 16, 2016

 

Hooray for Elvis Schoenberg, and for such a strange and wonderful world he has created.  Our recently added rendition of Jefferson Airplane’s White Rabbit couldn’t be more fitting, as Elvis has definitely commandeered us all (orchestra members and audiences alike) down a magical rabbit hole for adventures untold.

 

¹Related post: The Night, the City, and Miss Thing

 

Angela Carole Brown is a published author, a recipient of the Heritage Magazine Award in poetry, and has produced several albums as a singer/songwriter, and a yoga/mindfulness CD. Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.   Follow her on INSTAGRAM & YOUTUBE.

 

 

Belligerent Romance : song. heart. bravery.

www.hqpixs.blogspot.com

“…the only answer is to recklessly discard more armor.”
― Eric Maisel

 

I re-post this every year.  An anniversary of sorts.  So, if you’ve been down this road, please bear with me.  If not, enjoy.

On this morning 8 years ago, I was awakened rudely by construction in the neighborhood. I fought it for a time, but eventually gave in and hastened my exercise gear on. I got myself outside for a good walking meditation, and couldn’t get Hans’ song out of my head.

Angela.

There are actually lots of songs with my name in the title. The music from the television show Taxi is actually called Angela’s Theme. There’s Helen Reddy’s Angie Baby. Of course, the Stones’ iconic Angie. The Bee Gees have a song. Even Motley Crue, stealing lines from Hendrix’s The Wind Cries Mary with their own “when the winds cry Angela” lyric.

It can be heady, this idea of your name inspiring song after song, but then again none of them were written for me. So, how heady can I really get?

Until Hans. I was to be giving him a kidney in just two more days. This anticipated event had dragged out for nine excruciating bureaucratic months. My best friend pointed out the symbolic time frame as indicative of a kind of birth. But now it was finally arriving, and both of us (Hans and I) were bouncing off the walls in our own way. Me, I’d been doing these walking meditations every day for a month solid in preparation. It was equal parts exercise (I really hoofed it) and opportunity to live with my own thoughts before my day officially began with and in the world; to level myself and clear out my brain for the big day. I chanted, I did mantras, I worked out problems, I talked myself down from ledges, I rationalized behavior, I asked for forgiveness, I defended myself in imaginary arguments, and I thanked the Forces That Be for everything.

But on the walk 8 years ago today, all that activity got shoved to the various corners and crannies of my obsessive brain to make room for memories of the night before, going to see Hans play his guitar in a coffee house, and open his set with Angela . . . written for me.

Interestingly enough, almost all of the romantic relationships I’ve ever had have been with musicians and composers, and yet none of them has ever written a song for me. It is either a great poetic juxtaposition, or a really unsettling indication of the impact I have on the people I’m involved with. Of course, I’m also a songwriter, and I’ve never written a song for any one of them either. So, okay, maybe all it indicates is that every one of us is jaded and crusty and we’ve lost all sense of romance and inspiration.

Picasso painted every woman he ever fell for. What has happened to that kind of belligerent romance? The terrible compulsion to celebrate another human being?

So, hearing this song, sung by teenager Hans and his girlfriend and the drummer in his band, was a moment that had left me speechless and tearful. A moment that had made me realize that inspiration and romance do still exist…. they’re just hiding among the young. And if we still want to be touched by it, then the young are who we need to surround ourselves with.

So there I was, walking my regular route in the neighborhood, and trying to chant my daily mantra, which usually began with “Love, reign over me…” (I have tended to find much more prayerful intention in rock songs than I’ve ever found from anything biblical.) “ . . . make me mindful . . . give me grace . . . deliver me from need . . . fill me with wonder . . . ” etc. Sometimes I chanted for winning the lottery, but I do get that that’s not really how it works, and so those requests always came with tongue firmly planted in cheek. But on that morning I didn’t care about money or enlightenment.

On that morning, I was intoxicated by having had a song written for me, for the first time in my life. I felt like Marie-Thérèse, or Anaïs Nin, or Beethoven’s “immortal beloved”; women who have been painted, written about, composed for, dedicated symphonies. I highly recommend it. Being someone’s muse. It’s a high like no other.

As I walked, I completely tuned out the music that was blasting through the iPod buds wedged in my ear. Explanation: It’s easier for me to do my mantras against music; it’s a deliberate sensory overload; somehow things just stick themselves deeper in the subconscious when they’re too overloaded to have surface impact. It didn’t matter that day anyway; I had abandoned my Pete Townsend-inspired mantra and my downloaded pop tunes, to be flooded with Hans’ song. Or rather, the idea of Hans’ song.

A complete stranger who was walking my way held her palm up, and shouted “high five” as we passed each other. I obliged. First time I’d ever been accosted in that way. And I thought of this woman’s completely loopy bravery. Just to infiltrate a perfect stranger’s sphere, for a split second, and engage. What if I had refused her? Treated her the way we treat the bag ladies who pass us by? I wouldn’t be brave enough to throw my loopiness out there in that way; too afraid of rejection, of having someone look at me like I was nuts. And then I thought of the oddly shaped angle that I was practically on the eve of having surgeons cut me open and pull a kidney out of my body, yet here I was assured that I would’ve been too afraid to be silly on the street with a passing stranger. Which one really takes more bravery?

It takes a special kind of bravery to write a song for somebody. It takes letting down one’s cool guard and daring to show a little vulnerability. Letting the world peek into your opened and exposed heart. And most especially, letting the person for whom the song is written peek into your heart, daring to let them know that you feel, and that they have impacted your life enough to inspire public song.

I once had a boyfriend, a brilliant composer, who, with me, was one day listening to a song written by a friend of ours with a woman’s name in the title. He said, “I don’t think I could write a song with some woman’s name in the title.” He said this with a kind of pride in the claim. I felt sad for him. And sad for myself, as well, because I think that claim was my truth too. We’re all just too cool. Vulnerability is not attractive.

Leonard Bernstein’s Maria, from “Westside Story”, a song of truly loopy and delirious love.

Tom Waits’ Martha, an invocation of sweet, melancholy reminiscence.

The Beatles’ Michelle.

Elton John’s Daniel.

Brian’s Song.

Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair.

The list goes on, and on, and encouragingly on. Who knows which of these is based on an actual person, or is merely the playground of fiction? And who cares? Either one still requires a level of unadulterated celebration, and a willingness to abandon cool, which makes someone ultra-cool in my book.

Hans is brave. He is brave to be a musician, going out there in the world for the scrutiny of the jaded. He is brave to have withstood years of debilitating dialysis, countless surgeries, stem cell experiments, catheters and fistulas implanted beneath his skin, and finally a transplant. But perhaps the bravest act of all was his daring to expose his great heart in so many ways, only one tiny example of which was the writing of a song entitled Angela.

 

(Two days later, on July 22, 2008, I successfully donated my kidney to Hans San Juan, at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, in Los Angeles, and Hans has been healthy ever since.)

 

 

 

 

 

Angela Carole Brown is a published author, a recipient of the Heritage Magazine Award in poetry, and has produced several albums as a singer/songwriter, and a yoga/mindfulness CD. Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.   Follow her on INSTAGRAM & YOUTUBE.

An Elm & Houston Revelation

Elm & Houston Epiphany copy

 

Last week, for me, saw four intensive days in seminar with the iconic Tony Robbins and his “Unleash the Power Within” doctrine.  If you’re not familiar, look him up on YouTube. There are hundreds of lectures, TED Talks, etc, on the man.  If you ARE familiar, I’ve found, you’re either behind him with a sense of devotion that just about any other motivational speaker out there would be hard pressed to rival, or you’ve concluded that he’s a modern day Jim Jones. I find almost no one who has a tepid reaction to him.

Yes, I did the firewalk.  No, I was not injured.  Yes, it gave me a high like nothing else, for what it was designed to symbolize; the power to accomplish anything, even the seemingly impossible, a subject-matter I am painfully intimate with.  I had a personal stake in doing this.  And it delivered.

And finally, yes, we’re talking about the same UPWDallas2016 that blitzkrieged the news on the firewalk night. “Hundreds burned in failed Tony Robbins Firewalk!” As someone who was there, I can vouch for the real thing being nowhere near as dramatic or perilous as the coverage made it out to be, because, of course, “if it bleeds it leads.”

Dallas is a city I’ve barely been to, in all of my many trips to Texas.  It’s usually been a case of flying in or out of DFW and picking up connections to other destinations.  So in preparing to come to this city for the Robbins conference, on my menu of intentions was to visit Dealey Plaza, the site of the assassination of JFK. I really have a thing for visiting these kinds of historical landmarks, and this one especially has been on my list to visit, because our nation changed radically after (perhaps even as a result of) the assassination that day in 1963.

We only had the last day in town, after the seminar was over, to check it out thoroughly, though we did actually run across it by accident on the first night of the seminar.  The friend I was traveling with, and I, had decided to walk a few blocks away from the Convention Center to get our Uber, since eight thousand other people were all trying to get back to their hotels too. And at a certain point, a few blocks into our midnight walk (the night of the firewalk, so we were already on a kind of high), my friend suddenly stopped in his tracks, looked around, as if he was lost, and then said “I think this is it.” “What?” “Yeah,” he continued, ignoring me. He then proceeded to stroll across a grassy knoll (I’m still not catching on), and pointed to an X in the street. “This is where Kennedy was shot.”

It was a quiet night.  Clear sky.  Bright moon.  I was already open-veined and euphoric, because I’d walked on hot coals tonight, baby!  And I had not burned my feet, because I had applied the fierce focus and intention taught us earlier that evening.  And it was not a parlor trick; the coals were freaking hot.  And so, when everything finally came into dawning for me, and I saw the corner street signs of Houston and Elm, and the picket fence where the fourth bullet had allegedly come from, and the building formerly known as the Texas Book Depository, I stood there, having just experienced something rather larger-than-life, and cried a little, just to myself, at this other larger-than-life historical ground zero.  It was an eerie and haunting thing to stumble upon by accident at midnight.  We spent a bit of time there, as one does, then called for our Uber.  And then proceeded to end every night of the conference with the same agenda.

So, by the time we got to our last day in town, and had the seminar firmly behind us, and had a cousin of mine who lives in town escorting us for the day, to go experience this thing in the daylight, do the museum, and be official tourists, we had already experienced it the way everyone should, I’ve now concluded.  The midnight visit had been a sacred, internal moment that had allowed me to feel that bit of history in an intimate and private way, and to have an emotional reaction to it.  In the light of day, it was an entirely different experience.  All the opportunists were out in droves, selling their bogus copies of “the actual newspaper headline from The Dallas Morning News!” and their angle on what really happened that day.  Every wild theory was flying out of the mouths of the carnival barkers, creating a cacophony of chatter that was almost musical.

And then a most interesting thing happened.  One such barker that I was standing near, and trying to listen to, as he explained to a huddle of tourists about the fatal shot, couldn’t’ve been more than 50 years old, and yet was saying things like, “and that’s when we all hit the deck, and then ran across here behind the picket fence…”  He then pointed to a blurred figure, in a crowd of other blurred figures, in an old, dog-eared photograph he was holding, with the doomed presidential motorcade in the foreground, and said, “that’s me.”  Even though blurred, the figure he was pointing to was clearly an adult, someone who was not an infant, which, at a stretch, is the only way this guy could’ve potentially been present at this 53-year-old moment in history.  So yeah, we were dealing with crazy, I concluded, and he officially lost my interest in listening any longer.

From a distance, however, I continued to stare at him do his thing.  I sort of couldn’t take my eyes away, because I was suddenly reminded of the most profound thing that I had learned from Tony Robbins during his game-changing seminar intensive.  That all of our problems, struggles, dysfunctions, etc., exist and linger because they serve a need.  And as long as they continue to provide a benefit, they will not be repaired.  There is something that they fulfill.  I remembered that one stopping me dead in my tracks on, I want to say, Day 2 of this thing.  And so, as I stared at this man, who was more likely mentally ill than a simple con man, I was suddenly softened from the earlier eye-rolling, head-shaking, dismissive stance I’d taken against him, and wondered what need his story was fulfilling for him.  A sense of significance in a world that had rendered him insignificant?  Combating a crippling loneliness by surrounding himself with people who could potentially find awe in his story, and him?  Whatever the benefit was, it certainly wasn’t a financial one, since everyone around him had him nailed, and no one was buying his story, or his wares.  Yet they were continuing to hang on his every word, because crazy is entertaining.  And it was at that moment that I realized I would probably never look at any other situation again, neither another’s nor my own, without asking that question:  What need does this serve?

That changes the whole playing field, doesn’t it?

There is a plethora, a right worthy grocery list, to be honest, of struggles and hiccups that my own personal growth seems to be bombarded with these days.  Much of which I’ve chalked up to a case of what I do, or don’t, deserve.  Or I chalk up a certain behavior, which is nonetheless frustrating for me, to being a hardwiring.

For example, one sentence I’ve claimed for years as part of my story: I’ve spent my life not being picked.  Or at least believing, always, in that outcome (which pretty much means it’s guaranteed).  Case in point:  My boyfriend in 8th grade literally moved on from me to someone else without a word my way.  How I found out was when his “new thing” and I were racing against each other in a track meet.  The girl had actually been my friend, and the boyfriend and I had not had a single conflict, so while I get kids just moving on from each other thoughtlessly, I never understood the venal nature of the moment.  He stood at the starting line where she and I were poised to run the 50-yard dash, and he muttered, but for everyone to hear, “Beat her, Albertine!  Beat her good!” Albertine didn’t win that race that day.  I did.  But it gave me no pleasure in the victory, because I was also the one beaten.  I didn’t understand my breed, and I didn’t get what I had done so heinous to have deserved such malevolence.  Today I can see clearly how that one incident has been so indelibly stamped on me that I have always tended to enter into an agreement with isolation and outsidership.

I’ve just thought of it as a hardwiring, a simple case of, “This is who I am. I don’t fit into circles and clubs.” But here’s the danger in that; chalking anything up to a hardwiring presupposes that there’s nothing that can be done about it.  It takes the power (if it’s a plight we’re actually interested in fixing) right out of our hands.

And if I have taken nothing else away from this seminar, I have taken with me a new understanding that any emotional baggage we have only sticks around, and is given momentum, because there is a need it serves.  That one just blew my head right open.  Done.  Brains on the dashboard.  Blood and guts everywhere.  Absolutely nothing I’ve ever learned in my years’ long pursuit of self-examination has made more sense than that.

And so, rather than tossing off my penchants for outsidership, for example, as a hardwiring I can do nothing about, I need to figure out what the role of outsider in my life has been serving all this time.

One thing I know for sure is that it’s been a bit of a badge of honor.  I do love my solitude, and marching to my own drummer, and I have a natural penchant toward inward-turning and contemplation.  So, what it’s feeding is pretty obvious.  But it’s also a dubious badge, as there is always an overtone of loneliness and missed opportunity that is a part of the outsider landscape.  So, maybe it also feeds a kind of “poor me” comfort?  I’m not sure yet, but there is so much to play with here.  So much to discover, to answer for myself, so many lids to pry open, so that maybe I actually stand a chance of delivering myself from some of these frustrations, and finally give myself the permission to pursue just exactly what I want in this life.

As for Crazy Grassy Knoll Man, he will likely remain who he is, though we never know who or what comes along to change our state, and our stake.  But my attitude toward him (once I got past the stun of him cursing me out for not buying any of his wares) became more compassionate and empathetic to the battles that must be his, the battles we all experience to varying degrees of crazy.  And to know that there is an answer, somewhere, somehow, for every one of us.  I just want to be that little sprite whispering into Crazy Grassy Knoll Man’s ear, “I see you.  You are seen.”

This was merely one of fifty hours worth of ideas that were drilled into our heads by Tony Robbins during his four days of exhaustive saturation.  I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface on what this seminar did for me.  And honestly, I’m not sure I’m meant to share any more of the experience than this one example, because it was such a deeply intimate odyssey for me, one of identifying belief systems, and transforming them.  It was so intimate, in fact, that when my friend and I couldn’t get a seat together on Day One, we ended up not doing any part of the seminar together, as it was nice not having to be self-conscious around each other.  And that was easy enough to accomplish, in a sea of eight thousand people.  We just met up on dinner breaks and when it was over each day.  We didn’t even witness each others’ firewalk.  Instead, upon completion of the walk, I cheered for my triumph with the people around me, who were all doing the same, a communal pep rally.  New bonds got formed.  In fact, my firewalk partner and I decided to remain friends.  The experience was intimate and expansive at the same time.

I’ve been changed by this four-day event, that’s for sure. To what degree will be discovered in the days to come, as I venture forth to apply these tools and get out of my own way.  But I don’t think I truly got hit with that feeling of difference until my revelatory moment on the corner of Elm Street and Houston, the same corner that was John F. Kennedy’s last.  A setting ripe with ghosts and guile.  And maybe even a little grace.

 

 

Dedicated to my dear friend Ross Wright,
who gave me the gift of this experience,
went through it with me,
and who roots for me always.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Angela Carole Brown is a published author, a recipient of the Heritage Magazine Award in poetry, and has produced several albums as a singer/songwriter, and a yoga/mindfulness CD. Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.   Follow her on INSTAGRAM & YOUTUBE.

Those Who Read Books

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Those who read books travel the world and time itself.

Are explorers, adventurers, discoverers.

Take on beggars and kings with no thought in the ranking.

Have their minds forced open and their spirits ever expanding

in insatiable hunger for more.

Those who read books fill themselves with wonder.

Know that a book is a friend,

a teacher, a priest,

an agitator.

Are not afraid to be made uncomfortable.

Grow the wings that continue, muscle by muscle,

to sprout upon reaching “The End” time and time anew.

Fly.  Fall.  Fly again.

Those who read books are changed.

And glad of it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Angela Carole Brown is a published author, a recipient of the Heritage Magazine Award in poetry, and has produced several albums as a singer/songwriter, and a yoga/mindfulness CD. Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.   Follow her on INSTAGRAM & YOUTUBE.

Off the Mat and Into the World: A Yoga Forum

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“Abandon your masterpiece, and sink into the real masterpiece.”

― Leonard Cohen

 

I have practiced yoga for nearly 25 years now.  And, in fact, at this very moment have my head deeply buried in books on the 8 Limbs and the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali.   One year ago today I had a most invigorating round table discussion with some of my respected peeps in the yoga world, and some not in the yoga world but are wise individuals nonetheless.  The reason I know I had this discussion a year ago is because it was on Facebook, and the Facebook minions just love to remind us of anniversaries.

Facebook is actually never lovelier than when rich, vigorous conversations arise on a subject of great substance and depth.  Even the shut-in can attend the party.  That’s the beauty of it.  And in a time when the untold uglinesses of Facebook are routinely bandied about and analyzed, and we’ve all certainly experienced it, celebrating the beauty of it is refreshing.  Such conversations often arise for me, as I have a mineral-rich amalgam of FB friends, both real-time and virtual, and it’s those very kinds of conversations that keep Facebook interesting.

In this case, I was really happy to revisit that discussion, and found it just informational and insightful enough to bear sharing here.

*          *          *

My original Facebook post: May 30, 2015

I recently found a new yoga center in my neighborhood, and it is the real deal!  Tonight was the 2nd class I’ve now gone to, and tonight’s was Kundalini, which I used to practice years ago at The Awareness Center in Pasadena, and which is the form closest to my heart.  It was a great class; rewarding and challenging. Challenging in the sense of things being woken up, disturbed, stirred up, released, accepted, held onto, resisted, worked with, the whole smorgasbord of spiritual experiences, and the ultimate agenda of inner peace. Rewarding in the sense of those various shifts happening as we move our bodies, oxygenate our cells, and focus our energy toward benevolence and balance. I bring this up because for several years now I have been on the hunt, as it were, for “the real deal.”  The real thing is actually everywhere; it can be found easily. But as I’ve tried to take on a regular practice, I’ve had to consider my finances, and yoga centers can be expensive. So for me, I’ve tried to find the real deal at gyms, where for one monthly fee one can do all the yoga one wants. That hunt has been largely futile. Invariably when I’ve walked into a new gym in the neighborhood to inquire about membership, and they ask me what I’m interested in, and I say, “yoga, but is it the real thing?” they, without fail, assure me that it is.  They are almost always wrong. And I wonder if their answers to me are because they are instructed to say whatever the customer wants to hear, or because they really don’t know what yoga is.  I suspect it’s exactly both. I am being very judgmental here (the first step to recovery is admitting it🙂 ). But I have been genuinely frustrated, so it is what it is.  What I have found is a great sweeping commercialization of this ancient spiritual practice.  And that’s what yoga is – a spiritual practice. But now this other animal exists; yoga as another mode of aerobic exercise. Another way to get fit, get hard-bodied, be impressively flexible, even competitive.  It’s all about the externals. But the real thing is a profound meditational system that consists of what are called eight limbs (synchronistic to Buddhism’s eightfold path), and only one of those limbs regards asana, which are the poses that seem to be the entire package in the commercialized version. (“Oh, and the faster we move through these poses the better, so we can get our heart rate up and shed those pounds!”). Yes, I’m being sarcastic right now, although I have actually heard that uttered.  In any case, the real thing is a cultivation toward inner peace, spiritual harmony and balance, alignment with divine power, and integration of the physical and the mental. The word itself means “to unite” in Sanskrit. And it has been known to have profound impact on everything from depression to chronic illness to just simply improving our sense of well-being, and our willingness to self-investigate.  It’s been a lifesaving practice for me.  And the only reason the phenomenon is even in my thoughts tonight is because I had a most gratifying class, and it seems so odd to me that that experience has been so elusive over the past few years, and I would love it if my genuine yogi friends would chime in on this thought, and share your perspectives.  In fact, I welcome anyone, yogi or no, who has a thought on this.  Is there room for all of it (I suspect the answer is yes)? Or is it important to clear up general misconceptions about this beautiful, transformational practice for the lay public?  Or do I just have the whole damned thing wrong?  I suspect the answer to that is yes too.  Fire away.

Ken Rosser  
Years ago I read a yoga instructor saying that he felt that awareness of the spiritual benefits was not necessary in order to receive them, that in doing the exercises you opened that door anyway … I dunno, there was something about that I found kind of charming in the way that works so contrary to how “the west” operates in any of its disciplines …

Me
Hmmmmm.  I think I may need to go to my mountain and think about that one for awhile.

Ken Rosser
Just passing along something your post loosened up in my brain that started rattling around – and I remember the quote really sticking with me because when I was raised Catholic I would NEVER hear a priest say that the act of taking communion or even praying would have spiritual benefit whether or not you believed – that whole tradition hinges on your state of belief.  To say that yoga works whether or not you believe sort of makes it like a spiritual medicine in my mind, in the way that I don’t have to believe in antibiotics in order for them to kill bacteria.

I dunno…I’m just spouting here.

Me
Kenneth, your “just spoutings” are always some of the best Just Spoutings out there.

Lily Knight
Distortions are inevitable, since everything is continually changing, but you have the experience of your soul guiding you to where the light grows in you, and the practice of seeing the god in everything.

Candyce Milo
It IS hard to find that sweet spot.  I know.  I’ve watched Chokae’ Kalekoa post his photos and think that he may be the last of the quiet, Om breath centered, ritualistic teachers.  I think a lot has to do with yoga studios needing to keep their lights on and bills paid and their courses are thereby driven by the kind of people who power through their experiences and want a heart-rate boost, or they know nothing of the practice and are looking for an “easy-workout” with some stretching. 😳  I often see disappointed faces whenever the class isn’t physically hard enough or the poses are breath-balanced.

Me
Candi, your insights about teachers needing to bend to popular demand in order to keep the lights on are very insightful.  Makes me sad that people look to yoga for something that it isn’t. But then again, I’m getting feedback here about the importance of bringing my own intention to the practice, no matter what the nature of the class is (AND leaving others alone to do the same thing….when did I get to be such a bully!?), and I’m really trying to sit with that one right now.  Mountain calling!

Chokae’ Kalekoa
Actually, none of them are “The Real Thing” … and yet … they all are.  Don’t mean to get all Zen on a sistah … Or, do I? …. 🙂   I do get your meaning though, and feel your frustration. Having practiced deep meditation since I was 11, I feel grateful and lucky to have had my first approach to Hatha Yoga be from a meditative perspective.  My first young taste of “Hatha” Yoga Practice was in San Francisco with B.K.S. Iyengar’s Book Light On Yoga.  Mind-blowing.  I also found Patanjali’s 8 Fold Path, in which, as aforementioned, Hatha Yoga is simply one of the eight steps.  Overwhelming.  Over many years came a deeper interest and enthusiastic introduction to many forms, expressions, and systems of Hatha Yoga. From Astanga, Kundalini, and Sivananda, to Jivamukti, Viniyoga, Bikram and many more.  All practices, at their foundation/core, are all incredible practices.  As a Hatha Yogi (using the term in this case in reference to anyone who regularly practices any form of Hatha Yoga), one has the opportunity to experience many variations of practice methods within each “Style” of Hatha Yoga, with emphasis placed on various approaches at various times with various intensities – Hard, Soft, Meditative, Flow, Athletic, Therapeutic, Esoteric, Aesthetic, etc.  Although each system or style of Hatha Yoga may focus more on a particular method than others, they all (generally speaking) include, in one way or another, all of the above and more … despite the ridiculously childish this-yoga-is-better-than-that-yoga rivalries, vile commercialization and mountainous agglomerations of pure bullshit (a sanskrit term meaning bullshit) permeating the Hatha Yoga world on a global scale.  Through practicing and teaching Hatha Yoga for over 25 years now; to all kinda folks on a few different continents, I have seen and experienced the fact that, regardless of whether one considers oneself to be Believer, Non-Believer, Spiritual, Non-Spiritual, Theist, Athiest or any other Club Member … “regular practice” of any Hatha Yoga system, has the potential to bring about deeper understanding of oneself, harmony inside and out … and the healthy union of body, mind and soul, whether one is fully conscious of the benefits or not.  “Wax on, Wax off.”

Me
“Bullshit (a Sanskrit word meaning bullshit)…”  Chokae’, I love you for so many reasons, as you are a genuine shaman to be reckoned with, but never so much as when you make me laugh.

Candyce Milo
I stand corrected, cuz I guess my post is really about “look what I notice when my eyes should be on MY mat…” doop!

Me
GURL, don’t even get me started.

Victoria Kassa
OMG, this is a lot to chew on and mull over.  I have only ever practiced sporadically.  Angie, your album has been my go-to, which fits my budget and gets me centered.  So the real deal I think is also what you bring to the practice.  I see lots of studios popping up here in Highland park.  My schedule and budget are limiting me to actually explore them.  However I’m just curious about the “market.”  Are people really meditating or just working out?  I’m gonna stick with my home work out for now.  Thanks Angie!!!

Me
Thank YOU, Vicki. I’m so glad you’re using the CD!  I wonder if polls have ever been conducted on your very question.  I would be curious to know (the control freak in me just cannot seem to be tempered.)

Chokae’ Kalekoa
Another thought that may help… Practicing yoga and one’s yoga practice are 2 very different things. Just like rehearsal is different from performance.  When working hard, correcting, adjusting, pushing myself to the limit of the moment, I’m “Practicing Yoga” – When I’m indoors, or out in nature doing asanas at sunrise, sunset, or under the moon, in preparation for, or as meditation, that’s my “Yoga Practice.”  The harder my practice, the easier my practice🙂 .

Melanie Taylor
Wow, I’ve been overwhelmed reading all the profound and thoughtful comments. I finally had a moment to chime in, as I’m always up for geeking out about yoga.  My thoughts:  When I get all in my head about my 30 year practice (3 of which I’ve been teaching), I’m reminded of the wisdom of BKS Iyengar, who said, “Body is the bow, asana is the arrow, soul is the target.” And it goes without saying that breath is the Way.  I’m also a huge fan of “beginners mind,”  going back to basics of breath moving through the body.  And also, working from the outside in, because the body is the most accessible tool to the heart, which at the core of everything wants to express itself.  I’ve practiced all the disciplines but vinyasa remains my favorite because it mirrors nature, the movement guided by breath like wind through the trees, or waves crashing on the shore.  When I was getting certified, we had lots of spirited debate about the merits of yoga as fitness versus yoga as a spiritual practice.  My feeling is anything that gets you to the mat is going to benefit you in ways you never imagined.  And when you take your yoga off the mat is when it gets real.  It is insidious; it affects you, increases your awareness and maybe that will lead you to be more curious about the practice itself and how you make it your own.

Lotus Lindley 
What a wonderful thread. Thanks for including me Angela. Personally, I feel out of the norm of the yoga loop anymore.  But, I began with Bikram yoga 15 years ago. A dancer/dance fitness instructor at that time, Bikram was the perfect transition.  I loved the heat, the sweat, the athleticism that created the “work out” which fed me. It was at that studio I saw a picture of Yogi Desai, who drew me instantly. Within months, I was at a week long retreat with him, received Skaktipat & my life has never been the same.  I still chuckle at how my first couple of classes in his “Amrit Yoga” system left me underwhelmed & frustrated. I wasn’t sweating, I wasn’t getting a work out, but I hadn’t yet sensitized energetically to the inward “pull” so to speak, yet either. My practice since, for the most part, has been a very solitary one.  For me, Bikram was perfect & just what I needed in order to move me toward the next perfect phase.  It continues to work that way!  I believe Soul has a way of guiding us to what each needs along our journey.  I guess the point of my story is that there are many right times, right places, right teachers, for just the right lessons ~ all along the way.

Me
Blessed peeps, this is all such spiritual gold.  I want to meditate on each comment thoughtfully.  I am humbled and grateful to be given such loving feedback in my moment of trying to work it out.  The tangles that live in us … for me, this one’s lived for a long time, just tucked away, and only, ironically, JUST as I’ve been rewarded recently by a couple of strong classes, did this particular tangle rear up again for my perusal. It just blows my mind that finding a fulfilling class has felt like stumbling upon the Holy Grail, and it is a phenomenon I felt was worthy of a posted thought.

Melanie Taylor
Angela…One more thought to your original post as to teachers that may not resonate with you and where you’re at that day: that’s when my Iyengar mantra kicks in and I use that frustration as an opportunity to fire up my practice (deeper pranayama, extra vinyasas) and clear out negative shit that doesn’t serve my soul. Put simply, if I’m not feeling my teacher, I just go hard until I burn it out. 🙂

Me
I suspected that the idea of it being about what you bring to your own practice in any class, with any teacher, would largely be the feedback I’d receive.  And so far, you all seem to be on the same wise page, which means that there is no Holy Grail;  yoga is everywhere, in every inhale and exhale, every experience, especially the ones that challenge our beliefs, or just plain irritate us.  I truly thank you all for this feedback.

*          *          *

And that pretty much wrapped up the FB thread, which went on for a few thought-provoking days, and did me a world of good. The conversation, however, continues and continues.

Leonard Cohen, iconic singer/songwriter and Zen monk, said the quote that began this forum (abandon your masterpiece, and sink into the real masterpiece) about his experience of living for some time at a monastery.  As you’ve just read, I had some pretty righteously indignant feelings on the subject. And I was artfully, lovingly, but most definitely, nudged right off my soapbox.  And therein, I think, lies the essential meaning of Mr. Cohen’s beautiful words.

My contributors and comrade-in-arms:
Ken Rosser is the man I call my musical soulmate, with whom I’ve been involved in several music projects, and who may just be the most innovative and soulful multi-stringed-instrumentalist I’ve ever come across.  Check out our duo CD sometime, called MUSIC FOR THE WEEPING WOMAN.
Lily Knight was my Kundalini teacher (and favorite yoga teacher I’ve ever had) from way back when I studied yoga at the Awareness Center in Pasadena, and who is the one responsible for opening up this world for me of self-investigation and soul-tending.
Candyce Milo is a razor-sharp, irreverent comedian, actor, and writer, whose ability to examine the human condition in her one-woman shows raises her above the masses.
Chokae’ Kalekoa is, as Candi says above, just about one of the last of the quiet, Om breath centered, ritualistic teachers.  He is a yogi-shaman bad-ass, and founder of the Shut Your Monkey Meditation Workshop, which he travels all around the globe.
Victoria Kassa is a lifelong educator, which may be the noblest calling on the planet, and someone I’ve grown up with, literally since infancy, so….yeah…family.
Melanie Taylor is a yogi, singer/songwriter, seeker, carrier of light and eternal optimist.  She is also my birthday twin, and my true sister from another mister.
Lotus Lindley is a Reiki healer, and a Path of Sacred Feminine & Essential Oils Facilitator.  After having only met her through Facebook at that point, she actually came to my rescue with an earth-shattering Reiki treatment when I was going through something once. Blessings to her forever for that.

A deeply heart-filled gratitude to these treasured friends for contributing not only to my thread, but to my learning, my healing, and my ongoing cultivation of peace and compassion.

May this forum offer you an insight or two that you might not have had before.  Om shanti.

 

 

 

 

 

Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, is a recipient of the Heritage/Soulword Magazine Award in poetry, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog. Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.

 

A Rose Knows

Portrait of cute gril with big afro

 A rose blooms and releases fragrance.
It doesn’t question its deservedness.
A rose just knows. 

I’ve been wanting to tell of this encounter ever since it happened a few months ago, but have waited without really knowing why. Until yesterday morning, when I realized I’d been waiting for the title of my story. Victoria Thomas of the Agape Center, who was the visiting speaker at the spiritual center where I chose to spend Mother’s Day morning, at one point during her talk said the above quote. As soon as I heard this, I knew my piece was ready.

This spiritual center that I have newly started calling home, and sometimes sing at, hosted a craft faire this past Christmas, and anyone who had a craft was offered the opportunity to have a booth. I’d hesitated a commitment, and lost the opportunity, as booth space was spare and quickly snatched up. I didn’t represent a single thing that day, even though I have CDs, books, I’ve been handcrafting dreamcatchers for the past year, I make dolls. I sort of felt frustrated with myself that I’d had the instinct to hesitate, but ultimately it was okay as I had great fun attending in order to support all the other artists, crafters, and friends. And to top that off, on the day of the faire, right outside the front door of the center, the neighborhood’s Christmas parade was going on, so it was just one of those magical, wonderful days to be alive and to be part of a community.

“Would you like to buy a copy of my book?” she asked.  She was eight years old.

The bazaar was teeming with booths and tables of handmade jewelry, and crafted dreamcatchers (damn it, I make dreamcatchers!), and exotic crystals, and one-on-one healing sessions of every kind, from Reiki treatments to spirit animal readings. I’ve always been a sucker for a craft faire, especially if the general bent is New Age-y. I am crystal and sage mama. Always have been, and this was like a miniature version of the Whole Life Expo.

I’d already pocketed a few choice purchases. Knickknacks that would add to the energy and color and boho spirit of the 700-square-foot home I call my Zen cottage. I’d just made the silent promise to myself, “No more. You’ve shopped plenty now.” But who says “no thank you” to a little girl?  And a book?  She didn’t have a booth, I saw no inventory; she’d just planted herself in a corner.  I needed to see where this would lead.

“You have a book?” I asked her.

“Yes, I’m a writer!” she offered proudly.

“Well, okay then. How can I possibly say no to that?  How much for one of your books?”

“That’ll be one dollar.”

As I handed her a dollar bill, she proceeded to pull from her knapsack a single piece of notebook paper, folded in half.  I could barely contain a giggle. The title on the “cover” was The Little Fairy, and was adorned with the drawing of a stick figure sprite, some clouds and a sun.  I smiled so wide at my purchase, making sure to show her my delight, and couldn’t decide if it was more precious or ballsy.

I opened the folded piece of paper to reveal the story inside:

There once was a little fairy and she loved to fly.
But her wing got stuck on a rose bush and broke.
“Oh no” she cried.
She was sad so she went home and tried to fix it but she couldn’t.
But then she knew someone who could fix her problem.
“Can you fix my wing?”
“Sure.”
The End.

Whaddaya know, a lesson in conflict resolution. Made as simple as it truly is, if we adults could only manage to find our way around the viscous clouds that apparently go with adulthood.

“What a wonderful story,” I said to her. “I hope lots of people buy your book today.”

“Thank you!” she blushed.

I couldn’t rid my brain of this little girl for the rest of the day. Was it her creativity that I found so irresistible?  Or her unbelievable tenacity to assimilate with the adult world around her of product and consumerism? For certain it was her purity of spirit, and the compulsion to put her unfiltered, uncomplicated, I-don’t-need-no-stinking-booth carpe diem spirit, and her entitled (I write, therefore I am a writer!) energy into the ether.

“What’s your name?” I asked her, before I walked away.

“Angie,” she answered.

“No kidding.  My name is Angie too.  Except that everyone calls me Angela now that I’m an adult.  But look here, we have the same name.”

All Angie could do was giggle.

“May I share something else with you?  Not only do we have the same name, but I’m a writer too.”

“Where’s your book?” she challenged, without even a moment’s pause.

“Well…I….I…..”    I didn’t have a ready answer.

She just smiled, and let my “well…” hang in the awkward air, waiting for a conclusion that never came. I smiled back, wished her the world, and kept on roaming, but with my tail somewhat between my legs.

IMG_4566

I had absolutely fallen in love with this little girl’s mighty chutzpah, and decided that her book would have an honored place hanging on my refrigerator door behind a magnet, reminding me always. Reminding me always.

I see grace in everything. I just don’t see the wisdom in not. Because it is a paradigm that functions to create an environment where I always feel taken care of.  And on that day, with that encounter, grace was in full action as I was taken care of by a young girl who taught me, in no uncertain terms, that I needn’t ever question my deservedness.  A rose certainly doesn’t.

Neither did Little Angie.

 

 

 

 

References:
Victoria Thomas of Agape Center
Center for Spiritual Living Granada Hills

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, is a recipient of the Heritage/Soulword Magazine Award in poetry, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog. Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.

 

A Mountaintop Moment


https://youtu.be/JSk7YGbVJoQ

She was not allowed to hurt anymore today.

 

 

 

 
Angela Carole Brown is the author of three published books, The Assassination of Gabriel Champion, The Kidney Journals: Memoirs of a Desperate Lifesaver, and Trading Fours, is a recipient of the Heritage/Soulword Magazine Award in poetry, and has produced several albums of music and a yoga/mindfulness CD.   Bindi Girl Chronicles is her writing blog.  Follow her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram & YouTube.