My original piece, “Eulogy”. As my understanding of my grief becomes clearer and clearer in my life, both in what it’s robbed from me and what it’s gifted me, a deep unwinding has been initiated. When I shaved my hair in late October, it was an act of both unmasking, challenging the identification with form, as well as a somewhat habitually self-aggressive act of defiance. Ultimately, self-aggression was a coping mechanism developed by my cognitive software to avoid feeling the depths of the infinite well of grief which resulted in my multiple and extreme losses which began when my father died rather suddenly from Leukemia when I was four, at the same time that my mom, who survived, was battling breast cancer. This deeply impacted my confidence, my trust in life, and my freedom of expression, among many other things. Complex PTSD was the context in which my identity grew from then on. Shame basically bound my interpretation of these symptoms, and became a familiar, if painful, facet of my identity.

I have known death/loss intrinsically since a very young age. This has deepened me and also caused me at times to resist my own aliveness. Grief has manifested in my body through digestive dis-ease (digesting the indigestible) and injuries to my hands and arms, (conduits of an open heart) also due to the many years of waitressing, cello playing, art making, ambitious handy activity, and a death grip on life itself. After much deliberation and grieving, I have given myself permission to put the cello down for some time, as it is not a priority. It is not a casual instrument to be picked up once a week…As it does not have frets and requires maintenance of fitness of the many muscles in the hands and arms. I have performed so little in my life, compared to how much I have played. I finally was almost ready to pump myself up enough to go busk on Pearl St, after two years of saying I would. It’s strange, to feel as soon as I’ve grown into something, I’m growing out of it. Just like yoga, after many years I am finally confident enough to teach a class, and I know I would be great at it, but it no longer serves my injured wrists and hyper mobility. So who am I now, without those beloved companions? Can I allow the self defined by those activities to die, making room for a rebirth of a new me, one with more time to devote to singing, drumming, recording, didgeridoo, and other sonic pursuits that do not hurt my body? More time for the spiritual path of my personal art making? More time writing to find shape for the offering I have to bring people in grieving and people with eating disorders? To lean into the soul of my work and dance either it’s magic? And most importantly, more time to slow down and be with my grief. I am not saying I will never pick the cello back up again. I am just saying, I’m not going to be a professional cellist, and I love myself just as I am:

Oh dreams of freedom dreamt in faces and facets of the soul a turbulence of reflection in which I see myself…in which I see myself…

Surrendering the need to know, bow to the mystery Intimate with each ebb and flow, dancing imperfectly…

Let go of needing the story, begin to taste your own Vitality and clarity with no apologies…

This state of being emerges heartfelt courage to stand Sacred desire to exist, unfathomably deep…

What is real in this nakedness? It doesn’t matter Accept the heart opening and welcoming what you are….