Do you ever have those moments when you look around yourself and the life you have been building and you wonder if it's really you, or if it's a decision you made, long ago, and you don't even remember the reason for doing so? Or, you remember the reason, but it no longer applies to anything you do?
I am a little emotional today. Maybe it's the full moon. Maybe it's the afterwash of the emotions of yesterday, when I got back from the studio at 4 am to see the news of the twin bombings in central Moscow on the internet, after which I called my mom in panic.
Maybe I am picking up on that energy back there. A lot of people are scared and sad. And it's not just back there: an event like that radiates all around the world, besides, there are so many Russians everywhere else, as well, and they would be affected by it, too.
The cycle of violence never ends, does it. To every action, there is always a reaction. When a violent act is perpetuated, justice is something that traditionally will be meted out sooner or later – to which there will be another act.. These things go on for centuries.
Today I am also missing my best friend who is currently in Cambodia. She is back there for two weeks to check up on the orphanage she worked at last year, for a non-profit. I am selfishly wishing she was here, so we could have some tea and make some good energy, full of laughter and companionship. She will be back very soon though. Time has been flying. It scares me sometimes how fast. There are some major decisions for me to make, shortly, very close ahead. I also miss my mom, who is Moscow, and has not been doing that great, health-wise.
There is a book on my bed, among others: it's Rilke's 'Book of Hours: Love Poems to God'. I sleep surrounded by books: they are like my guardians and silent friends. Only silent until I open them, of course. There is something in Italian, and something in French, as I am getting those languages back. There is a beautiful book called Bel Canto by Ann Patchett, which makes me feel every time that I should be a classical singer, and not delve into the strange, glitzy and ephemeral world of pop music. There is a book of poems by Stephen Dobyns. Then there's a novel by Robert B. Parker. His Spenser detective stories are my favorites. Neil Gaiman's smoldering picture peeks out from beneath the blanket, as it is on the back of 'American Gods'. And, of course, Clarissa Pinkola Estes and her 'Women Who Run With the Wolves'.
There is also a Russian novel by Akunin.
Yesterday I was invited to spend Seder at a friend's house. It was a big gathering, full of children and relatives. I had never been to a Seder. It was another reminder how ritual and tradition in form of stories bind people together and help them move forward through this life. It was another reminder to me how much a part of me has always wished to be part of such a family. Am I going to get a chance to start one? My own family – on both sides – is pretty disjointed and has not exactly been a source of much inspiration to me in that area. Do I even know how?
And it was a bittersweet thing for me, as well, because I was already out of sorts with the news of Moscow bombings. I felt welcomed. I ate too much. I joined in on the singing. I went home and slept badly, probably because I had gorged on the desserts and it was late in the evening.
To go back to my first paragraph. My reasons for doing what I do have changed almost completely in the recent few years. But strangely enough, I think they just reverted to those I had when I was very small. Music, writing and creativity were my delight. I also wished to heal the world. It was really that simple.
As the sadness passes – say tonight or tomorrow – I will have to acknowledge to myself, that, really, I am in an amazing place of my life. There is so much to be grateful for. But there is so much more to learn and accomplish. I would not have it any other way, probably, though. It is also so important not to take anything – or anyone – for granted.
I don't know. Today, as I sit here and type these words, I am finding within myself this strange desire to leave. Just get up and go, walk outside, get into the car, perhaps, and go. And yet, fueled, perhaps, by the energy of last night's gathering and its togetherness, I feel such a deeply-rooted longing to belong and share. And underneath it all, I want to sing, write and make something magical happen. Or watch it happen, as I am a part of it.
I think Rilke says it best, so I don't need to get entangled in words and phrases, trying to express this moment:
I believe in al that has never yet been spoken
I want to free what waits within me
so that what no one has dared to wish for
may for once spring clear
without my contriving.
If this is arrogant, God, forgive me,
but this is what I need to say.
May what I do flow from me like a river,
no forcing and no holding back,
the way it is with children.
Then in these swelling and ebbing currents,
these deepening tides moving out, returning,
I will sing you as no one ever has,
streaming through widening channels
into the open sea.
