cocoon

Even if I wanted to start at the beginning, I couldn’t find it. (Links below)

There’s something so deep for me about New Mexico that it’s almost indescribable. I mean I’ve been there several times before, once on a memorable tour with Chris Rosser where he set his guitar on fire in Albuquerque. But when I drove to Taos / Santa Fe for the first time with Cary and the girls, I remember feeling it strongly. As we climbed the New Mexico mesa, leaving the lazy oil rigs of west Texas, I said to Cary “I think I want to move here”. That was several years ago – this is where I am now:

I found myself in a tub rapidly filling up with hot water trying to remember how long the lady told me to soak. Was it fifteen minutes? Was it ten after four when she led me in? I never do this, unless it’s with a glass of wine and my girlfriend. Now … what was I supposed to do? Oh yeah – drink lots of water. So I filled up the paper cup with cold water from the bathtub spicket, and counted down the minutes.

Since the new year: I lost Rachel, produced “Remembering Rachel”, released “Luv Songs for Grown Ups”, and taught at Young Writers (University of VA) again. In the last month I finished Cary’s second album “Yellow”, proposed to her on Chapel Hill at Kerrville, and made a commitment to spend the next year before we get married working on a couple of solo projects for myself. In the last week we had gigs in CO and NM, then spent a couple of days in Santa Fe on vacation with my brother and his wife – Dan and Idella. My brain sizzled as we listened to the most sensual flamenco trio I’ve ever seen (a guitarist, a percussionist/vocalist, and a dancer with castanets – Cary thinks I was only into it for the dancer) and I entertained a decade old notion to create improvisational pieces for Indian dance. While the four of us were in town Dan ran into our cousin Rekha Ohal, who is an amazing jazz singer-songwriter, and we all had a mini reunion over dinner … and I became a vegetarian.

But soaking in my tub at Ojo Caliente less than an hour from Santa Fe, spending way more money than we should, I tried not to think about all that. Twenty-five minutes later, the attendant came back for me, and walked me into a dark room with a bunch of tables where Cary was just getting settled. I lay down on the table next to her, and was swiftly wrapped up in towels and blankets – “swaddled,” Cary told me later. “It felt good to be pampered,” I said to her. We didn’t talk after that.

I was inside myself.

… in a cocoon, an embryo in the womb, like God was holding me. My heart was beating fast. Maybe the altitude I thought. And as I practiced my breathing, I began to cry for no reason I could fathom. Soon the words: “Be still” echoed through my head. I sounded them out in my head. Be. Be still. I completed the phrase: “And know that I am God.”

But that’s not what I know to be true – “And know that you are God” I thought. I dwelled on the vowel I, elongated it, and soon it became U. As I hummed it in my head I realized that depending on your intention, you could read “know that I am God” and it could mean “know that you are God.”

The night before, flipping channels in our B&B, Cary and I happened on a woman at a pulpit, sporting a rather austere business suit, a thick military accent, and a propensity for scowling. She talked about how God has an assignment for you, and if you accept your assignment, He will give you grace to complete it. I remembered saying to Cary that if you just substituted for the pejorative language, you could find the truth in what she said.

“I have a purpose,” I said to myself, “and I give myself the grace to live a purposeful life.” My tears flowed, my chest heaved, and I worried that Cary would worry for me.

I remembered a lunch at my folks’ house where Gramp said grace in Telegu. After the prayer I opened my eyes and across from me, tears were streaming down Dad’s face. I asked him why. “I wish you could’ve understood it, son,” he said, “the words he used were so perfect, so beautiful.” I gave thanks for a grandfather who could speak so eloquently, and for a father who cries when he hears him. My mind turned to Mum – my nurturer, my teacher, and my measuring stick. She fulfilled her purpose in my life, it’s time to be the man she raised me to be, to let go of resentment and unattainable expectations. You weren’t ready til now. It’s OK.

More tears.

I thought about studying theology in college in what feels like a former life, and how my awareness of God changed the instant Josh Graves died at the age of twelve (almost twenty years ago). I heard, I thought, I recited, I chanted: “You were in me, you are in me, you are me, I am you.” All those years I felt abandoned by God, or because of God, came into focus. “You never left me, you never left me – I just didn’t know.” “Thank you for this understanding.”

I was audibly sobbing now. It sounded so loud in my cocoon. It’s a wonder Cary didn’t get up from the table beside me. I had the notion that I should remember everything so I could make this my first official journal entry, and also get my cousin Cynthi off my back, ha! But then I thought, “No, let me make this present moment perfect,” (to paraphrase the words of Thich Nat Hanh). I spent the rest of my time in the cocoon making up words to the banal new age music coming over the speakers, and rested on the words John Hill taught me (from the guru Tara Singh): “What you are is far superior to what you want to become.”

“Will I be successful?” I asked. And what I heard: “You are here.”

All my entries won't be like this, I promise - Tom.



LINKS

Remembering Rachel: http://rachelbissex.org
Cary’s site: http://carycooper.com
Listen to Rekha: http://psjb.20m.com/aftermidnight/Recordings.htm
Ojo Caliente: http://www.ojocalientespa.com/