award winning media midwife + artist + producer + professor
I wrote this song, I See Myself in You, as a tribute to the human capacity to connect and transform by being truly seen and held in the FULL RANGE of our internal landscapes. In that place of being real, without veils, without facades, is the richness of being unguarded and alive. I hope for this song to catalyze connection between people at odds and perhaps cast a pebble of hope into the waters of our shared future.
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This song was written to honor the relationship between me and my grandmother, Bernice Friedman. She was a brilliant combination of grace, wit, intelligence, and passion. Her life is still very much alive in my veins and I see her so clearly in my children's eyes. My debut studio album DELVE is dedicated to her life and her quest to question everything she ever thought she knew. Brene Brown's work is a balm. Her brilliant TED talk about vulnerability and courage went viral in 2011 and from that she wrote the book, Daring Greatly. It is a call to bravery and how the courage to be vulnerable transforms the way we live, love, parent and lead. Brene begins her book with a tremendous speech by Theodore Roosevelt entitled, "Citizenship in a Republic". It was delivered at the Sorbonne in Paris, France on April 23, 1910. Here is an excerpt (in parenthesis I made it revelvant to men and women, if Roosevelt were alive today he would do the same): "It is not the critic who counts; not the (person) who points out how the (other person) stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the (one) who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself (or herself) in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he (or she) fails, at least fails while daring greatly...," This leads me to my blog post which is that RAISING MONEY TO PURSUE MY PASSION AND CALLING IN THIS WORLD IS SO INCREDIBLY VULNERABLE. I wake up in the middle of the night thinking, "Am I insane to be starting an entirely new endeavor? Will enough people support me in this crazy leap of faith? What if I don't raise enough money to make this album?" Then, I think about my grandmother, Bernice, who, at 47 years old, gathered the courage to not only enroll in The University of Chicago and devour the classical texts of world civilization (she never went to college before that) but, also, earned her driver's license and became a top realtor in the North Shore of Chicago (after never driving or earning a penny). From that work, she earned a solid income, saved a nest egg and then rocked the world of investing (before that she and my grandfather hadn't invested). She lived into this transformation when I was about 10 years old. She decided to overcome the barriers that kept her from being brave. She was a force of possibility and modeled a sense of queenly empowerment. She inspired my mom who at 37 years old went to law school, after a lifetime of being called to this work but terrified to pursue it, and now has a thriving practice in Chicago. I feel struck by the parallels. How scared they must have been to change their lives and live on purpose. How terrifying and thrilling to let go of who they thought they should be to become who they truly were. Now, as a woman, a mother, and wife, I engage in the endeavor to live into what is calling my soul. When I wake up with night sweats or anxiety, when I feel contracted and triggered, I stop everything and just breathe. I breathe into knowing this can work. I breathe into trust. I breathe into having chances and opportunities that my ancestors could have only dreamed possible. I breathe into taking one step at a time, knowing there is guidance at every turn, with lessons along the way to be learned. This transition from intense, gripping, stifling fear into gentle, motherly self-love, through the breath, is the birthplace of creativity, joy, and connection. That said, even if I fail, when I fail sometimes, at least I make my best efforts in this lifetime, daring greatly. What an exhilarating experience to share last night with so many people in my family and community of friends! It was the official launch party for a KICKSTARTER CAMPAIGN to catalyze the production of my debut studio album, DELVE. I had a massage the morning of, and acupuncture the day before, with needles literally in my ears, while performing. They helped me feel the weight of my body, my breath and my organs. They nourished my kidneys and blood as I drank nettles and comfrey tea right there on stage between songs. I realized that performing original songs from the heart is sort of like mothering, in that to be vulnerable means everything is subject to change in a moment, while being present and engaged, simultaneously. I have practiced my songs so often that they are a part of me, in my cells. To share them felt triumphant and fun after being terrified to sing only 4 years ago, like the river flowing down with rocks as barriers, which only re-direct the current to continue moving forward....like time. Time moving faster with each year which is why I figure, what the hell? I'm going to be 40 next summer and whatever scares me needs to be faced head on, and overcome. There really isn't anything to fear but fear itself. Last night brought the memory back of a story about the last time I ever performed on the stage, not in music, but the New York theater. It was New York City in 1997. I was 22 and just got a bit part in an Off-Broadway show at The Mint Theater. It was Mr. Pim Passes By, written by A. A. Milne. I was waiting in the wings for my line and because I was young and only had 3 lines in the whole play, I was not humbled and seasoned enough to be focused in the way I needed to be. There was someone in the office who wanted my opinion about something he had written. I was easily lured from my post to go help for just a moment. I was distracted and lost track of time and my place in the play. All of a sudden, I heard silence. My heart immediately began to race, as if being chased by a wild sabertooth tiger. I ran from the office to the wings, knowing I had missed my line. I went where I should have been to hear my cue. I missed it. I dropped it. The actors were fumbling, doing their best to improv their way through, waiting for me. I awkwardly walked to the stage to deliver the line for which they waited and we tried our best to salvage the disastrous moment. It was my last line of the show, and my last night on the stage, until last night. After that debacle, I ran to the green room and felt sick with fear, shame, and embarrassment. In a 22 year old's life, that was the greatest failure I could have imagined. The director came back stage with a ferocity in his eyes and yelled quietly, "THAT WAS UNFORGIVABLE!" Foam was coming out of his mouth. I left New York soon after that figuring I had zero place in the arts and I was going to just shut off and do something else. That something else was journalism, which, eventually, it turns out, led me back to the arts, but in a different, more integrated, more true context. My songs are the opposite of stepping into another character outside of who we are, but how to step fully into our truest, most authentic selves within the life we've been given. Also, I find that writing my own songs and singing them has a quality of merging journalism with the arts in that I can comment on life and the world around me yet perform them with humility, life experience, and my own stamp of poetry and soul, bringing me deeper into the joyous, complex truth of what is unfolding. Recently, I rehearsed my songs in a warehouse studio space in Oakland with professional band of musicians with bass, drums, keyboard and rhythm guitar. It was electrifying. Despite having had a full day with little sleep the night before, I was charged, running on adrenaline and inspiration. Co-creating the accompaniment for my songs was like adding salt to soup, just after giving birth when you are so hungry that food becomes like breathing air - one MUST have it immediately. The songs came alive with a restored vibrance and energy that thrilled and nourished every single cell in my body. While singing, there were times that I had to laugh with excitement. On our way there Dave, my producer, asked me, "3 years ago could you have imagined driving to rehearse your songs for a debut music performance?" This was the very last thing on my mind 3 years ago, before the moment in my last post when I spoke of being called out by my son after I relentlessly tried to get him to take music lessons. He said, "I don't want music, mama. YOU want music!" Before that conversation was a trip to the jungle of Costa Rica, to the land of our dear friends Stephen Brooks and Sarah Wu, to share in their wild and crazy fun wedding . It was there, in 2010, that I had an awakening. While the kids slept in hammocks amidst the steamy night air, thick with heat and humidity, I jammed all night long in music circles, singing. Singing as I never had sung before. Singing to support the music happening. Something was opening in me. A reservoir of creative power that was ready to emerge. And, then, there was a moment that would change me. I met Amir Bar-Lev at this wedding, along with his awesome wife who I had already come to know, Jenn Bleyer, and their little daughter, Yael, who was the same age of 10 months as my daughter, Sofi. We were instant kin to have been crazy enough to bring our families with 10 month old girls wrapped up to us in the jungle. The Brooks-Wu wedding was not to be missed. As Amir played guitar, I sang, along with a group of other musicians and singers. Between songs, Amir said to me, "Ahri, you have an amazing voice. Amazing." No one had ever said that to me before. I was taken aback and inspired by the reflection of someone so accomplished as a filmmaker, with such impeccable sensibility. Before that night I held a lot of tension in my voice but in Costa Rica I distinctly remember saying to myself, "relax from the inside and support what is happening here to serve the music." Interestingly, before our trip to Costa Rica, I felt compelled to paint an image of a woman in a white long dress with sleeves that seem like wings, almost in flight, yet her feet rooted into the earth, surrounded by the lush nighttime jungle, looking up at the moon. Behind the painting, and after we returned to the Bay Area, I started to glue clips that grabbed me from Sasha Frere-Jones articles on musicians and music from The New Yorker. The painting lives in my house on the wall as a constant reminder of the seed that began this journey. When we got home from Costa Rica, I added clippings to the back of the painting and a vision to open and hone my voice. Then, there was the moment with my boy about his music lessons. Fast forward 4 years to deciding on the name of my debut album: DELVE.
photo credit: Ahri Golden
I was walking with my daughter as she danced home on the sidewalk, singing, from preschool. With the sun bursting alongside a slight breeze, we sang together (she knows the lyrics to my songs because I practice them all the time as I wake up my kids, pick them up from school, cook dinner, put them to bed). One of our neighbors, who is not a parent, passed by and heard us singing together. He smiled. Sofia said, "Hi David!". He stopped and asked, "How do you raise children while knowing what is going on across the country and around the world? How do you stay positive?" I'd say that my job in this life is not necessarily to be "positive" but to hold the devastation of the people in Boston, Texas, China, of the horrors humanity endures every day and at the same time hold the beauty, awe and poetry of precious moments when everything seems so remarkably simple, and in fact, is. One does not negate the other. They are not mutually exclusive, but co-exist within the experience of being human. The macrocosm of the world is happening within us. There are many parts and personalities inside each of us. Some get triggered at different times with different people for different reasons and I think it is just being in relationship with it all as true and a part of existence unfolding. My purpose is to remain, as often as possible, present and connected to my children so they can grow, feel safe, loved, nourished, and nurtured. With this, my vision is for them to cultivate the skill of connection to who they truly are, and know, in their bones, that they are loved and, thus, can give love and create more beauty in this world, whatever that may be. I suppose this intention is positive, but not in a polyanna way. In a real way. In acknowledging that this fundamental phenomenon, the ability to love another and to see beauty even when there is tragic devastation, violence and pain surrounding, is a paradox and the human conundrum which offers us a choice. Can we face, learn to live with, and soften into the suffering and turmoil both in the world and within? With that, can we know when it is time to get activated and muster the deepest well of our strength and creativity? From here, from this tension, I believe, is the core of creative source. Can we acknowledge the brokenness AND the pure beauty of life, the miracle that is this breath right now? Is it possible to choose the radical practice of giving and receiving love to others and ourselves so we can open to the capacity of what humans can become?
Norman Rockwell
Today my heart is heavy as I reflect on the place of my childhood years from birth until age 8. It was Hingham, Massachusetts, a suburb south of Boston. I lived in a modest home right next door to my best childhood friend. Well, it wasn't exactly next door. There was a little forest grove between our homes with a path leading to each other. It was magical to feel the autonomy in what seemed to be a forest. Really it was just a few trees, but to the mind of a young child, it was a mythological world of imagining pirates and dragons, faires and queens sitting for tea time at the grand table of a tree fallen, naturally, in the space between our homes. No plastic cups, just pretend ones. No costumes, just pretend ones. That is what we kids did with time on our hands, un-scheduled. Those were the days when kids went out in the morning during summers and played, dreamed, invented from sunrise to sunset. Our parents were around, but not outside watching us. This way of life ingrained in me the same sense I try to create for my kids. It's not the same in urbanity, of course, but I do carve out slivers and tastes of what a slower, simpler life can provide in the midst of iPod touch land (my son recently bought one with his own, partially-earned, saved money). I do feel pulled to embrace the madness of the jet fast zeitgeist, or else be squashed by its allure. It is the art of holding boundaries to contain and utilize the innovation of the day. Today after school, my son and his best neighborhood friend, who lives 4 houses away, both turning 8 years old this month, were playing basketball on the street, as their younger siblings drew chalk art on the sidewalk, which had a very similar molasses sort of feel to my experience in Hingham. An elder woman, age 87, drove up slowly with a gigantic, heartfelt smile, her sister's daughter was in the driver's seat. They stopped outside of our home and gazed with nostalgia. I asked if I could help her and she told me, "I raised my three boys in this house 60 years ago. Such fond memories. So much has changed and yet the street feels the same." At the very same time during this lovely interaction, unbeknownst to me in the moment, there was a bomb going off across the country, in what was my childhood home, in the place where I feel nostalgic, in the place where my dad ran the Boston Marathon. The 8 year old boy who lost his life today in this senseless act of violence struck me deeply, not to mention the horrific news of people's limbs exploding off from their bodies. In a Rockwellian moment where childhood can feel so pure, so unadulterated, so timeless, there is another reality at play, simultaneously. Today I am experiencing a visceral sense of holding opposites, as if our humanity depends on feeling both the tragic pain of our world as well as the poetic awe of being alive, breathing, right now in this moment. To understand in our bones that everything can change in the blink of an eye allows for appreciating what is right here right now, together. The RSA Animate short film, The Empathic Civilization, speaks to this idea that human beings are fundamentally wired to experience pangs of universal empathy. This characteristic bonds us to each other and what matters most as it relates to our survival: face-to-face, empathic connection, which is where our species is ultimately headed. Another song is coming.... I can feel it.
Gustav Klimt
Today is one of my days where Jay takes the kids and I do yoga or go for a long hike, then write and read at the cafe. It is my solo Sunday ritual that re-sets me for the week. Today I read an illuminating article in the NYTimes Sunday Review, What The Brain Can Tell Us About Art. This month Barack Obama "unveiled a breathtakingly ambitious initiative to map the human brain" so we can more deeply understand the human mind, and what lives beneath the surface of everyday experience. This article tracks the origins of our modern cultural quest to reveal "the unconscious, instinctual strivings of people", which focused on the great works of Gustav Klimt, Oskar Kokoschka and Egon Schiele - the major artists of the modernist period known as "Vienna 1900". These revolutionary painters were the first to depict the idea that "insight into another begins with understanding oneself." I was transported back 20 years when I first discovered these master painters. Klimt especially moved me and still does. It was 1994 and I was living in New York City. Multiple times a week I would go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to be with these paintings and write in my journal. I would walk or take the bus across the park from my Upper West Side apartment that I shared with five other young women, living with tapestries as boundaries between our private spaces, and walk, purposefully, up the stairs into the alcove. I would then sit on the floor and greet these paintings, like a close neighborhood friend. Tingles would shiver up my spine and through my hand as I wrote about the compositions and colors and what they would spark in my being. These paintings moved me so deeply each time, like electric waves inspired to focus and calm my senses. Today's article helped me further understand my initial instinct to love this style of painting and subject matter, which is connected to why I write songs about the human experience, and capture the essence of people through photography. Nuances of internal life are an unseen, beautiful mess of contradictions and dynamic humanity. It is this state of being - to lift the veil on humanness - that drives me to capture and create. I am fascinated by the human capacity to empathize and be vulnerable. I'll take it a step further, that in doing so, in being empathic and vulnerable, we are poised to transform the places within that keep us from opening deeper to life. When we are safe to let go of the ways in which we strategize to protect ourselves, there lives within each of us, a treasure trove of extraordinary, moving, and utterly real aliveness. I am experiencing this first hand in my singing and songwriting, which has been, in the past and still to some extent, but less so, enormously terrifying to even broach, let alone pursue. Yet, as I do it more, I open and relax and allow. The article states that "as we look at a portrait (or hear a song), our brain calls on several interacting systems to analyze contours, form a representation of the face and the body's motion, experience emotion, and perhaps, empathy. Along with these instantaneous responses, we form a theory of the subject's state of mind." And, it is this that the viewer or listener becomes connected to the work. It moves us, personally, relating to our own human experience. When art emerges from something true, something honest, something hidden from view, yet universal, we, as a witness, can come home to ourselves. My paternal grandfather's family immigrated from Vienna during Klimt's influence in 1900, which makes me ponder my initial and sustained draw to the ways in which art, psychology and science come together. Perhaps the cells of my synapses are wired to connect back to these radical, original Austrian ideas, brought through into now, like a torch of evolution curiously unfolding. Every time I think, "Who do you think you are to sing?", "You have no business to produce an album", "This is crazy." Every time these thoughts swarm inside me, I breathe. I notice the voices. They are young. They are wounded. I take them in. I try not to attach to them. I thank them for coming and let them know they are welcome. I mother them. I remind myself of how and why this part of me is emerging. This creative energy has been dormant since I was a little girl, aching to come alive for as long as I can remember. It was not ready yet. It is ripe now. When these feelings come, I sing the first verse and chorus of one of my songs, Trust Myself: Melt the voices, inside my head Gentle, it's ok Tuck them to bed Nurse the voices slowly Let them be seen All they ever wanted was to be free to be Trust myself I'm a primate Trust myself Mammal instincts Trust myself Re-learn to listen Trust myself To know what's needed right now These lyrics help me rest inside the center of my fear. They bring the voices home so I can lean into my creative process and trust that everything is unfolding as it is, and as it must. photo credit: Ahri Golden Today, on my grandmother Margie's, aka Bubbie, 88th Birthday, 88 times around the sun her life has lived, I sent out the invitation to my upcoming event at The Red Devil Lounge. The sending is dedicated to Bubbie. I have a magnet on my fridge that reads "What Are You Waiting For?" and another that reads "Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." I want to be 88 someday. I want to be able to look back on my life and feel a sense of liberation and fearlessness. I want to have created a body of true soul work (however that may morph over the course of my life) to pass on to my children and their children and their children's children. Just to know these moments happened and share with them that I felt deeply in my life and was compelled to create from that place. I think about the treasure it would be to have the journals and art of my great great grandmothers. This thought inspires me. If I am lucky enough to live into the eldership and matriarch of my family, as Bubbie has done, if I am blessed enough to witness my great-grandchildren, but ultimately, to appreciate now, and all of its imperfections and quirks and kinks, not in the past, not in the future, but the poetry of right now, then everything else that may come is gravy. |
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