Experimental Traditional Americana Rooted in Spiritual Inquiry
Artistic Practice as Spiritual Practice
This is an edited version of a talk I gave at the Zen Center of Denver in August 2019
In his book, The Forest People, Colin Turnbull talks about the time he spent living with the Mbuti pygmies in the forests of the Congo. One night during a festival time, when there was lots of dancing and singing around the fire every night, Turnbull wandered away from the fire into the forest and came upon Kenga, a young man who was a close friend of his, wildly dancing and singing in the moonlight in a small clearing. Turnbull called out to him in a lighthearted way saying, “What are you doing dancing out here by yourself?” Kenga turned and looked at him like he was the biggest fool on earth and said, “I’m not dancing by myself, I’m dancing with the forest.”
When I first read this, I was living in the woods and planting trees for a living. I began asking myself, “How can we reclaim this relationship with music and dance as an intimate and essential way of relating to the world in which we live?” I spent lots of time playing music for and with the trees, the rocks, and the sound of the stream, and I learned that they don’t care a bit about how many fancy licks you can play or even how “good” you are. They will, however, engage in something very much like a dialog if you’re willing to listen and respond on their wavelength.
For many years, I have been one of the leaders of an improvisation group for musicians and dancers. At the core of this practice is the experience of stepping into the unknown, of coming into the space with no idea of what will happen or what we are going to do, paying attention to the feelings in our bodies and allowing them to guide us.
Many decades ago, I made a conscious decision to let go of any attempt to be “good” or successful as a musician and instead to structure my music practice to make the actual experience of practicing as rich and nourishing to my spirit and psyche as I could. Out of this, a practice has evolved which is very similar to the practice of improvisation. My practice is simply to walk into the studio and notice what I am drawn to. Am I drawn to a particular instrument? Am I drawn to a particular style of music? Does my body want to move? The commitment is to show up and engage with whatever I’m feeling, to let go of expectations and let go of control, and let the practice lead me.
The traditional western perspective, which defines music and dance in terms of performance, in terms of producing a product, implies a separation between artist and audience, which then focuses artistic practice on becoming “good” enough to be considered to be an artist. This manifests in each of us as the questions of “Am I good enough?” or “How good am I?” and these questions completely cut off the experience that I am seeking as an artistic mystic. These thoughts are just like the chattering of the mind in my meditation practice, they constantly arise in my practice, I am constantly noticing them, and constantly letting go of them. And to be clear, I’m not saying that there’s anything wrong with performing or performance focused music practice, I’m simply saying that these approaches are very different from the practice I am describing here.
And if becoming a “good” musician is not the goal of this practice, then what is the goal? I don’t know, but I do know that leaning into that question opens us up to a deeper intimacy with the experience of being human and leads us much closer to Kenga dancing with the forest in the moonlight than mainstream approaches to artistic practice do. The mystical aspects of the practice begin at precisely the point where goals of performance and getting “good” drop away, at precisely the point where we allow ourselves to drop into the exploration of “What’s really going on here?” “What is this about?”
I also reject the perspective that music and dance are things that we do “for enjoyment” or “for entertainment.” Words like this trivialize the practice as if it is some kind of hobby. I do this practice because I feel in my guts that it is an essential aspect of my being alive on this planet.
Doing a practice like this involves constantly pushing against the boundaries of safe conceptual reality, and painful emotion and fears are the barbed wire and fence posts that mark that boundary. I find myself sobbing or trembling in fear so often in this practice that it’s not even noteworthy to me anymore. It’s simply part of the practice
We live in a world that is based on the objective/scientific paradigm that, “If you can’t measure it, it doesn’t exist.” One of my teachers introduced me to an alternative, “If you can experience it, it’s real.” This is so obvious that it’s laughable. If you can experience it, it is at the very least, a real experience. One of the most important shifts in the development of my artistic practice was the conscious decision to treat my own experiences of my body as both real and relevant.
Yet, in a culture that expects things to be measurable in order to exist, talking openly about these experiences opens a person up to being labeled as crazy, being ridiculed, ostracized, or worse. It was not that long ago that people were burned at the stake for having experiences like this and those memories are still buried deep in the collective consciousness.
Also, there is the fear of actually being crazy. When we step outside of the accepted conceptual paradigm, doubts arise. Am I nuts? Am I just making this up? This is one of the reasons that teachers and fellow travelers are so valuable. All it takes is one or two people who have similar experiences to say, “It’s OK, you’re not crazy.”
In spite of all this talk about painful emotion and fear, the main feeling that I have when I’m doing my artistic practice is that of being incredibly alive. Most of my singing, most of my dancing, most of my music, is a celebration of connection and intimacy with the experience of life.
To quote the Canadian songwriter, Ferron,
I did my best to follow the calling of my soul.
It’s like that first guitar I had, at the center is a hole,
At the center is a longing that I cannot understand,
As a girl on a road.