There are some who believe that music is as necessary to survival as oxygen and more enjoyable than sex. They exist - I’ve met them. I’ve seen them swim in the sound waves of any and every genre, deconstructing each song to its components and reducing it till its vibrato. I like to compare such people to wine lovers, as they seem to share their methodology. Music enthusiasts will stare fixedly as their ears drink the sound. Perhaps they will close their eyes and let the melody wash over them, swishing it around like an aged Merlot. They don’t just listen to music, they surrender control to their senses in order to experience it. These are neither groupies nor fanatics laced with tattoos; they are individuals who engage in wildly passionate love affairs with melodies and harmonies and chords and become too involved with it all to remember that the rest of the world exists. These people, in their hearts, live at Bonnaroo.
Music festivals like Bonnaroo have earned bad reputations. Naysayers often connote them as drug-dens, giving people an excuse to bask in hippiedom and flirt with hallucinogens. I won’t say it doesn’t happen. But the difference is in the perspective. I saw Bonnaroo this year. I dragged from the joint that came from nowhere and everywhere. I walked around shoeless, dressed only in buoyancy. I danced with myself, without judgment or criticism, and without the self-consciousness that I’ve grown so accustomed to. My five days in Tennessee don’t make me a hippie, and it might be the closest to will come to rebelling against society. But I learned that it’s not about “sticking it to the man” or seeing the world through a psychedelic lens. It’s about freeing yourself from the reins of the world. It’s about recognizing that reality is a machine composed of coils and cogs that churn out rules by which we are expected to live. But the most valuable thing I learned is that once you’re brave enough to take a little perspective, brave enough to leave behind the safety of familiar, you may find yourself feeling much more comfortable swimming in the unknown.
Upon my return I was often asked why I would attend in the first place. I don’t have an answer for that. But what I gained by the end of Bonnaroo justified my attendance. Bonnaroo had me in an element; one I am unaccustomed to but no less my own. It was liberating to wear a different sheath for once, and to allow myself to feel inspired through an unconventional medium. For the first time in a long time, I felt an uninterrupted relationship with myself. I was a muse and a symphony; I was a masterpiece and a song. And while the feeling was only temporary, nothing can deny the fact that I still felt it.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
Question Mark?
“But I don’t want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want danger, I want freedom, I want goodness, I want sin.”
-Aldous Huxley, Brave New World
After my first experience living abroad, the director of my program told me I was self-actualized. It was meant to be a compliment, acknowledging that my time in Barcelona had inspired and enlightened me, conveniently fulfilling the purpose of the program. Though to me it couldn’t have been further from flattery. I hated the idea that I had already become the person I was meant to be. There was way too much seeing to do, too many worlds left unexplored. Spain was the tether that tied me back to the self that I had lost over years of self-consciousness, but there were moments still when I felt more like a kite, floating aimlessly hundreds of feet above ground. If that was fulfillment, it sucked.
Since then, I’ve had this thing about reaching that state of mental nirvana. I prioritized it to the point obsession, convinced out of the irrational fear that without constantly searching for it, I would never actually become "actualized". Friends insisted that I try too hard, that I am running where all I need to do is walk. But I can’t see myself that clearly. My life is punctuated with accomplishments and blessings and good fortune, but I still see myself as an enigma. Some days I feel like a story that has lost sight of the plot, others like a decrepit building without scaffolding. To the query of “why?” I am a question mark.
Introspection is habitual for me, at times to my own detriment. Occasionally I catch myself reliving scenes in my head and replaying the past. These efforts, of course, are practiced in vain. But introspection doesn’t always leave me chasing my own tail. That time devoted to wondering and feeling and excavating myself has guided me through hidden pathways that I would have otherwise passed absentmindedly. And I may have found the source to that unfulfilled, empty feeling that I sometimes get… I’ve figured out that I want more.
Call me gluttonous, call me indulgent, call me spoiled, call me stupid. I’m hungry; I want the world and all its contingencies. I want impasto. I want harmony. I want language. I want a glorious soul and a fearless heart. I want shocking confidence matched with striking humility. I want frustrating honesty with lacing compassion. I want uncharted waters to splash in and unwavering faith for salt.
I’m insatiable. I’m not sorry.
-Aldous Huxley, Brave New World
After my first experience living abroad, the director of my program told me I was self-actualized. It was meant to be a compliment, acknowledging that my time in Barcelona had inspired and enlightened me, conveniently fulfilling the purpose of the program. Though to me it couldn’t have been further from flattery. I hated the idea that I had already become the person I was meant to be. There was way too much seeing to do, too many worlds left unexplored. Spain was the tether that tied me back to the self that I had lost over years of self-consciousness, but there were moments still when I felt more like a kite, floating aimlessly hundreds of feet above ground. If that was fulfillment, it sucked.
Since then, I’ve had this thing about reaching that state of mental nirvana. I prioritized it to the point obsession, convinced out of the irrational fear that without constantly searching for it, I would never actually become "actualized". Friends insisted that I try too hard, that I am running where all I need to do is walk. But I can’t see myself that clearly. My life is punctuated with accomplishments and blessings and good fortune, but I still see myself as an enigma. Some days I feel like a story that has lost sight of the plot, others like a decrepit building without scaffolding. To the query of “why?” I am a question mark.
Introspection is habitual for me, at times to my own detriment. Occasionally I catch myself reliving scenes in my head and replaying the past. These efforts, of course, are practiced in vain. But introspection doesn’t always leave me chasing my own tail. That time devoted to wondering and feeling and excavating myself has guided me through hidden pathways that I would have otherwise passed absentmindedly. And I may have found the source to that unfulfilled, empty feeling that I sometimes get… I’ve figured out that I want more.
Call me gluttonous, call me indulgent, call me spoiled, call me stupid. I’m hungry; I want the world and all its contingencies. I want impasto. I want harmony. I want language. I want a glorious soul and a fearless heart. I want shocking confidence matched with striking humility. I want frustrating honesty with lacing compassion. I want uncharted waters to splash in and unwavering faith for salt.
I’m insatiable. I’m not sorry.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Anger Management
Dear Friends,
I hope this email finds you well. This afternoon, I may or may not have had some wireless trouble. And when the guy at RCN didn't seem to understand that I don't know the difference between a modem and a refrigerator, I may or may not have gotten frustrated. When my cell phone lost service with RCN after 25 painful minutes of trying to fix the original issue, I may or may not have slammed my phone down onto the tile floor of my bathroom. All I know is, now, my phone is most definitely not turning on. The good news is that the dysfunctional internet that was the source to the temper tantrum is working again. I believe it is safe to contact me, now that my rage has passed, although without a phone I am effectively unreachable. Should you be desperate and brave enough to need me, I suggest you email or visit me. Whatever your mode of communication, I do request that you immediately call animal services on me if I start foaming at the mouth again. They are on speed dial on my--oh... oh, yeah.
Most Maturely,
Kate
I hope this email finds you well. This afternoon, I may or may not have had some wireless trouble. And when the guy at RCN didn't seem to understand that I don't know the difference between a modem and a refrigerator, I may or may not have gotten frustrated. When my cell phone lost service with RCN after 25 painful minutes of trying to fix the original issue, I may or may not have slammed my phone down onto the tile floor of my bathroom. All I know is, now, my phone is most definitely not turning on. The good news is that the dysfunctional internet that was the source to the temper tantrum is working again. I believe it is safe to contact me, now that my rage has passed, although without a phone I am effectively unreachable. Should you be desperate and brave enough to need me, I suggest you email or visit me. Whatever your mode of communication, I do request that you immediately call animal services on me if I start foaming at the mouth again. They are on speed dial on my--oh... oh, yeah.
Most Maturely,
Kate
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Yoga
For an inviting oasis of spiritual health, yoga studios tend to be pretty awkward. In fact, there was only one place where I felt more self-conscious and that was in high school during Phys-Ed. Bold statement, I know. But there something about stepping barefoot into a candle lit room flanked by Buddha statuettes and filled with earth-loving vegans who are inclined to “adjust” other people by touching them in questionable regions that’s intimidating and pretentious. That or the silence.
This occurred to me today when I walked into the lobby of a studio and lingered uncomfortably while the instructor sat behind her desk and ignored me. I thought natural human graces prompted eye contact when someone is present, but I could be wrong. Perhaps I disrupted her from her meditation when my vocal chords meekly coughed “hi,” but she seemed equally as startled as irritated. And I knew that by the tight-lipped board straight smile she replied with. “Is this is the 5:30 class?”
“Mhmm.” Still with that smug grin. It’s a good thing I was about to align my chakras or otherwise I would’ve been compelled to align my fist with her face. Many of my encounters with yoga instructors have felt similar to this, and the hypocrisy is maddening. The instant they start waxing tolerance and non-judgment I feel judged. And that hippie-dippy bullshit they sometimes pull makes me think they’re just posers. But regardless of my opinions of the imposter “yogis” who come my way, there is a reason why I still participate. I unrolled my mat on the studio floor, crossed my legs and closed my eyes, and focused on the light.
The beauty of yoga is that, despite that at times it makes me revisit the discomfort of my middle school years, it still allows me to transcend my self-consciousness and tap into a spirituality that is hard to access outside the studio. The art of yoga itself, each posture and pose, every cycle of breath… There is something about it that defies the real world but somehow enters a truer reality. And I think that’s why people participate – they want to experience an attachment to something greater, something genuine. Yogic precepts force you to realize that we exist in a series of tiny insignificant realms that comprise the universe. But conversely we, as entities in this realm, can still be significant contributions to something bigger. The moment we stop taking ourselves too seriously to be patient and too arrogant to be grateful, the walls of the matrix fall away. That philosophy creeps back into my head with every vinyasa. Yoga recognizes that our limited world is a system, and we can be more than just a cog in the wheel should we choose to resist it. It’s simultaneously humbling and motivating.
By no means am I an expert. Nor am I about to renounce my possessions and relocate to India. But I am someone who has been affected by yoga, felt a spiritual shift as a result of my practice. There are still moments when I throw tantrums in my head when my instructor, poser or not, adjusts my body or makes me instantaneously hate yoga with some contorted posture – a clear indication that I still have a ways to go to enlightenment… or maturity, for that matter. But I’m getting closer. And maybe, when I get there, I will discover that the self-consciousness I had once felt was strictly self-prescribed, and that perhaps I was wrong about all those yoga instructors after all.
This occurred to me today when I walked into the lobby of a studio and lingered uncomfortably while the instructor sat behind her desk and ignored me. I thought natural human graces prompted eye contact when someone is present, but I could be wrong. Perhaps I disrupted her from her meditation when my vocal chords meekly coughed “hi,” but she seemed equally as startled as irritated. And I knew that by the tight-lipped board straight smile she replied with. “Is this is the 5:30 class?”
“Mhmm.” Still with that smug grin. It’s a good thing I was about to align my chakras or otherwise I would’ve been compelled to align my fist with her face. Many of my encounters with yoga instructors have felt similar to this, and the hypocrisy is maddening. The instant they start waxing tolerance and non-judgment I feel judged. And that hippie-dippy bullshit they sometimes pull makes me think they’re just posers. But regardless of my opinions of the imposter “yogis” who come my way, there is a reason why I still participate. I unrolled my mat on the studio floor, crossed my legs and closed my eyes, and focused on the light.
The beauty of yoga is that, despite that at times it makes me revisit the discomfort of my middle school years, it still allows me to transcend my self-consciousness and tap into a spirituality that is hard to access outside the studio. The art of yoga itself, each posture and pose, every cycle of breath… There is something about it that defies the real world but somehow enters a truer reality. And I think that’s why people participate – they want to experience an attachment to something greater, something genuine. Yogic precepts force you to realize that we exist in a series of tiny insignificant realms that comprise the universe. But conversely we, as entities in this realm, can still be significant contributions to something bigger. The moment we stop taking ourselves too seriously to be patient and too arrogant to be grateful, the walls of the matrix fall away. That philosophy creeps back into my head with every vinyasa. Yoga recognizes that our limited world is a system, and we can be more than just a cog in the wheel should we choose to resist it. It’s simultaneously humbling and motivating.
By no means am I an expert. Nor am I about to renounce my possessions and relocate to India. But I am someone who has been affected by yoga, felt a spiritual shift as a result of my practice. There are still moments when I throw tantrums in my head when my instructor, poser or not, adjusts my body or makes me instantaneously hate yoga with some contorted posture – a clear indication that I still have a ways to go to enlightenment… or maturity, for that matter. But I’m getting closer. And maybe, when I get there, I will discover that the self-consciousness I had once felt was strictly self-prescribed, and that perhaps I was wrong about all those yoga instructors after all.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The Honeymoon Stage
Love. There has never been a concept more laden or loaded. I’ve heard it said that "love is all you need," that love "lifts us up where we belong." But I’ve also witnessed that nothing on earth is more treacherous or glorious than when it’s at its extremes. It is a fine line, love, as it can be equally euphoric as painful, proportionally devastating as enlightening. But despite its precariousness, the vote is unanimous that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all… if only to experience The Honeymoon Stage.
Traditionally, The Honeymoon Stage refers to the era in a relationship when love strikes: the stars align, heartbeats skip, and the world redirects its orbit to circumspect two people. At least that is what those two people believe. Rarely, however, does this concept apply to the most significant relationship of all: the relationships we have with ourselves.
I realized recently that we live in a world of measurement, and our distance from the social average, however marginal or great, is the gauge of our self worth. And it also occurred to me, that I am no exception to the rule. After a lifetime of comparing and competing with everyone around me, I realized one rainy, lowly, feel-bad-about yourself-day, that our society is one in which our position on the acievement spectrum indicates our value. It struck me suddenly: I spent all of my adolescent years thinking I was stupid, just because my best friend got better grades than I did, and lived my high school years in misery because my teammates were thinner than me. It was an epiphany. I didn't want to do it anymore. I didn't want to continue exisiting by other people's standards rather than living. Period. It's not one for others to judge or to hate or to love.
So here is the project: to relearn to love myself, the same way I did in preschool - when my fingerpaintings were true expressionism pieces; when I took pride in anything that made me happy; when nothing, neither people nor circumstances, could make me feel bad about myself. I want the simplicity of childhood back, in a way that helps me remember that in order to expand myself, I must first look within myself.
I hope you enjoy my stepping outside my comfort zone as much, if not more, than I do.
Traditionally, The Honeymoon Stage refers to the era in a relationship when love strikes: the stars align, heartbeats skip, and the world redirects its orbit to circumspect two people. At least that is what those two people believe. Rarely, however, does this concept apply to the most significant relationship of all: the relationships we have with ourselves.
I realized recently that we live in a world of measurement, and our distance from the social average, however marginal or great, is the gauge of our self worth. And it also occurred to me, that I am no exception to the rule. After a lifetime of comparing and competing with everyone around me, I realized one rainy, lowly, feel-bad-about yourself-day, that our society is one in which our position on the acievement spectrum indicates our value. It struck me suddenly: I spent all of my adolescent years thinking I was stupid, just because my best friend got better grades than I did, and lived my high school years in misery because my teammates were thinner than me. It was an epiphany. I didn't want to do it anymore. I didn't want to continue exisiting by other people's standards rather than living. Period. It's not one for others to judge or to hate or to love.
So here is the project: to relearn to love myself, the same way I did in preschool - when my fingerpaintings were true expressionism pieces; when I took pride in anything that made me happy; when nothing, neither people nor circumstances, could make me feel bad about myself. I want the simplicity of childhood back, in a way that helps me remember that in order to expand myself, I must first look within myself.
I hope you enjoy my stepping outside my comfort zone as much, if not more, than I do.
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