Courageous Conversations — All of Them

Fresh from the David Whyte poetry retreat at Asilomar, I found that his themes and some of his oft-heard stories remain the same, but his eloquence is perpetually fresh and the main points something we all need reminders of. Which essentially boils down to choosing to have the courageous conversations with ourselves that we would rather not have and are constantly turning away from. 

 

Last night, I got to sit in on an evening concert with the two Irish lads Micheal and Owen who David often brings with them to these events, these translators of poetry as music into music as poetry. Wonderful singers both with famed (in Ireland) musician parents. I accompanied Owen on Till There Was You, both of them with Moondance and then led me own activity with the audience, my rendition of the African- American Juba whereby they learn the patting pattern and then leave me to it at tempo with the text and Micheal beat-boxing, Owen keeping a step and clap beat and then me doing my little Steppin’  body percussion routine. After the beautiful legato Irish melodies, it’s a nice contrast that brings another energy into the room. 

As always, I gave some background to Juba as one of many “survival songs” of black people brutalized by the centuries-long narrative that dehumanized them and inflicted unimagined suffering, a way to bear up that eventually blossomed into so much joyful music that we all have delighted in hearing and playing. The long legacy of spirituals and gospel and jazz in its many incarnations and those grandchildren of jazz that became rock, Motown, pop, funk, hip-hop and beyond. When I talked, I noticed a palpably different kind of silence in the room from the kind that comes after a heart-opening poem. This morning, Micheal told me that my talk made him consider our responsibility as elders to pass stories like that on and noted (independent of any comments I made) a silence while I talked that felt like resistance. 

 

There it was. Because my story was followed by my whimsical “summer-camp with ice cream and mosquitos” method of teaching the Juba rhythm and the powerful energy of all the rhythms and song that followed, the audience moved from that silence into participatory jubilation. I hope that didn’t erase the seriousness of the story before, but rather open them further to the need to keep hearing it and passing it on to others.

 

Because here’s the deal. As I mentioned a few posts back, David is a virtuoso of the human psyche who has inspired thousands with his brave and eloquent work. Both as a matter of temperament and choice and his status as an Irish-English immigrant who moved here in his 20’s, he doesn’t connect courageous conversations within ourselves with courageous conversations between ourselves about our shared American collective destinies. That murky swamp we call “politics,” but is better described as “social justice” or just plain “humanitarianism.” 

 

I happen to believe we need both conversations. In fact, a hopefully-to-be-published book connecting Zen and Jazz (and Orff Schulwerk) is precisely about the way they both overlap and complement each other. Of the perhaps 200 people in the room that night, there wasn’t a single black face. And maybe five total that were Asian or Latinx. Which made it feel yet more important that I took the time to speak up as I did. And that felt sense of resistance that at least two of us imagined seems a sign that it’s important for all of us to speak so and often. Not as a political agenda and hopefully connected with the joy and power of black music and dance and poetry and more, but as a reminder that these courageous conversations are worth considering alongside our spiritual doubts and seeking. 

 

Just a thought.