These twins, who were separated at birth, have now been reunited and have begun their asymmetrical dance. One I know well, through earthly vibrations he sought a spiritual map and found one, or found many that led to the same destination. Unbeknownst to him until recently, he was reading the auric fields of the subjects he chose (or chose him?) to write about. Because as a rule we are not taught about these things in this ?culture? if one has any kind of gift then it will typically have to develop in the dark, and will likely be a secret even to the one who has it until much time has passed, and if by some happy accident it doesn’t get squashed or beaten out of them, at some point a realization may occur: what once was seen as a particular knack or flair with language turns out to be a psychic or spiritual gift of a certain kind of sight. Blindfolded you sail your small craft navigating within the eye of the hurricane.
The other twin, the tradition bearer, is new to me. This one who seemed stuck in tradition that looked more like habit or fundamentalism, has turned out to be the mineral I was missing, the carrier of the vestiges of the indigenous. I needed to wait until my daughter was born. I needed to go to New Mexico and study at the feet of a ritual elder at Bolad’s Kitchen. I needed to grow up at the age of 45 on a farm. I needed to be shot by the arrow of tribal music from East Asia recorded on the resin secreted by the female lac bug, known today as 78 records, whose broken shards were so treasured by traditional peoples that they hung them as decorations in their various majestic abodes. So now, like any Nyckelharpa (demon fiddle) player I stand at the crossroads. Half of me is of the underworld, and when I water the seeds of songs they grow and bear fruit. I do not write them, I witness them, I give them my voice and my hands, and the dragon awakens within me, or flies through me. And also, songs from Mongolia, songs from the Caucasus Mountains in Georgia, wild Bulgarian Clarinet music, the jumpy intricacies of Swedish folk songs, these also carry me on the wings of the Firebird, home to a nest somehow so familiar, and yet also a crucible of intense heat and transformation. I have been afraid to go here, I have been longing to go here. The studio is nearly ready. Am I? Walk with me now and we will see what unfolds.