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Space dedicated to the cultivation of clear channels for divine sounds, visions, and movements to manifest in the name of Love.

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In April 2019 I had the honor and privilege to meet renown Kenyan author and activist Ngugi Wa Thiong'o at the Lukinya House Of Fashion. Having survived many things in his life including exile from his beloved Kenya, he shared beautiful and inspiring words of connection, the reclamation of native African languages as a way to know oneself, and the importance of learning from one another as native Africans and people of the diaspora. Writing in his native tongue of Gikuyu, Thiong'o is a living example of the power of art to transform our internal and external environments. To honor his contribution to Kenyan culture and the world at large I was one of several artists invited by One Vibe Africa to share our work. Below is one of the poems I shared. I am forever grateful for this experience to connect, share, and reclaim my identity as an African in America, with deep roots that continue to grow and bear fruit.

The death of a star
Like burnout
The loneliness of the heart
Rivaled only by the lies of the mind
Found
In each other
How do I encounter me?
Wholly?
Fully?
Or pieced out of acceptance
By a mindset of separation
You have left me to know me
I have been sent by the divine
On the wind
Mirror me
Polish me
And release me
Back into this oneness
Come home to me
Return to your indigeneity
This blackness
Has left the light on
And the door open for you
Enter
Come together
And kneel with me
For the ancestors
Sing their praises
Black body
Become talisman
Like amulet
Signaling the way home
It was nothing until we felt
Until we saw
And became through one another
You called to me to manifest
The edge of my understanding
Dances with you
Teach me
To be me
By being
With the me in you
Come back to me
Come back to me
Come back to me

When it’s knocking but you won’t let it in:
Recognizing roadblocks to love
Recognizing love as balance
And other roadmaps to success (love)

All the stories are true in their way, but we lean into particular ones. Our shadow, like that purple drank, helps us with this lean. When we are unaware of its presence, it can push us into directions we don’t truly want to go. When we fear it and avoid it we can’t see it coming, eclipsing the light. When we dive into it with courage and confidence, even if we are afraid, knowing it houses the path to our liberation all the same, we can let unrest lay it’s head upon the pillow of clarity.

It was all me. Take it how you will. The good and the bad. The positive and the negative. The balance and the imbalance. The reflection never ceases. Sometimes the mirrors are too much to handle in a moment, especially if truth has gone unrecognized for so very long. Truth is always lurking, even in the illusion of distance. Anything can be placed in between, depending on your flavor or preference. Food. Chemical substance. Sex. Work. Care-taking. Romantic relationships. Choose your poison, anything can be what it is.

We’ve been given power in perception. Maybe some of the magic is in choice. No one is more or less true, it’s just the house of cards we are willing to build around it. If it all comes down, breaks down and changes form, why not let the descent be decent? Why not let the dying be beautiful? If we are choosing, why choose against our happiness, as it pertains to the call of the heart? As a place, a knowing, a feeling, sight, sound or touch not needing confirmation. External affirmation is a hell of a drug. So what is trust? Where is trust? In this language of the heart where the highest power lives in us. This is what I trust. I devote my will to clearing its path so that I may trust with ease what arises from its center. Questions posed only to get closer to love. All beings, all people, all experience as master teacher. Disciples in the midst. Jungles of opportunity to test your skills. Life is one gorilla of a teacher.

One time, the last time, I went to the zoo I was 14 years old. I watched a gorilla mother and her cub in captivity. The mama sat back and munched on some grass. The baby, full of energy and curiosity, excited to experience what lay beyond this fake habitat and glass confines, devised a plan. It took a small stump from the grass, and rolled it over to the large glass window separating ‘it’ from ‘us.’ It grabbed a hearty piece of bamboo wood, climbed up onto the stump and began making twisting motions on the large metal bolts holding the glass in place. He moved the tree trunk log from one side of the window to the other, over and over again, twisting and twisting but to no avail. He did not yet have the right tools. The mother sat back in the cut, watching and munching. It was as if you could read her thoughts. ‘He’ll figure it out eventually...that this is where we are, this is our home’.

The baby never stopped though, he kept trying. I thought to myself that maybe it was this spark of unending curiosity to move beyond the confines of one’s current environment that made it all the way to us. That that baby gorilla, and maybe all other gorillas held a spark of curiosity in them that we inherited, by way of osmosis or evolution is of no consequence. Even the gorilla seeks freedom. Maybe this is the lesson. I was sad that day and vowed never to return to the zoo. Looking back I see the message in a new way. Don’t give up. Keep going. To seek this freedom is natural. Beyond human, it’s in the fabric of existence to expand. Give thanks for the points of contraction. As painful as it can be to make space, it is a necessary precursor to giving birth. And we must all give birth.

(To make your roadmap, grip the pen, put it on the page, close your eyes and don't let up. Your path will be made and uncovered all at once. Trust it.)

Dear Sister:
Grief And Blues Music in Amur-Akush

In September 2017 I set off on a journey with my mother, and two of my sisters to make space. To shake the grief loose and mourn the loss of our eldest of 3 beloved brothers. Earlier that year in April one month after his passing, we found a cheap deal and booked tickets to Barcelona, and decided to expand the trip to Morocco. A strange time in our family, all attempting to find our footing in this new life without our eldest brother, another shockwave rippled through us.

On June 22nd, 2017 I woke up to the sun shining thinking about the Steel Pan workshop I was going to spend my birthday weekend attending. Excited, eating a pancake at the dining room table, with my then partner sitting across from me and my young cousin to my right, my phone rang. It was my mother. All she said was, ‘John is gone.’ Three months after the passing of our eldest brother, one day before my 32nd birthday, I sat still with the phone to my ear. My gaze hazily fixed upon the Puget Sound, I could feel the sun beating down on me, the rays reaching through my thick and heavy bathrobe, beads of sweat forming on my chest. After what seemed like an eternity, my mother said, ‘hello?’ I told her I was sorry and that I was on my way. She was with my dad at my brother’s apartment, looking at him I imagine, in disbelief that this baby she had carried in her own body had left the planet before her. We hung up the phone, I looked across the table in silence, hoping to postpone the impending gravity I was to bring to the day, that would color all of my relationships, to postpone the grief that was already creeping up through my feet towards my heart. Finally I said, ‘my brother John has passed away.’ We sat in silence. No one spoke. No one moved towards me. No one looked into my eyes. Death can do that, turn the bold sheepish.

I somehow knew it was my job to call my siblings. If you’ve ever made these kinds of calls in life, there’s nothing like them. Knowing what you are about to say to the person who answers, the way the words will change their day, their life, and set loose a trail of grief that must be walked. There’s an ironic feeling of urgency to notify loved ones as quickly as possible, as if your lack of timeliness might somehow change the information you have to impart. Our brother was ‘dead,’ and this new relationship with him began to rearrange us.

September came, and it was time to make this journey. With feelings of apprehension mixed with a sense that we had nothing to lose, we took flight with our brother’s ashes in tow. First, we landed in Los Angeles, California to meet with my sister Janell. Before departing LA we made a trip to California Metropolitan State Hospital, where one of our eldest sisters is incarcerated. This visit struck somewhere deep inside of us all, in a place where there was no room for fronts, for false assurance or veils. Our sister cried. She broke down in this visit. It was the first time she was seeing all of us together since both of our beloved brother’s passings. As we entered the visitor room, in the blink of an eye the grief swelled to the surface as if it had just happened yesterday. She had endured the news, the loss and the mourning alone, confined in an institution that can turn hope into a hollow thing. I left our visit racked with guilt. We were free to move about, to cross borders, to mourn together. She wasn’t. Her eyes filled with tears, her head hung low. In that moment I felt powerless, words felt like lies so I remained silent. All we could do was hold her hand, rub her back and just be. Be there together, and wait for the little hand on the clock to reach 4 when visiting hours would be over. We said our goodbyes, she wished us well on our journey. We left her there in the visiting room in her khaki uniform, eyes red, so pretty and so sad. I did not know what to do, other than to commit to and dig my heels deep into my freedom, for my sister, for my brothers, for the parts of me that remained chained. That day her story became one I had to tell. I did not yet have the words. The words that have come since that day do not do her the justice she, and so many like her, are due. I write them anyways. I speak them anyways. I sing them anyways.

**Guembri A 3 stringed lute, made from a piece of hollowed out wood covered with a camel skin. Its kin include the banjo and kora of the American South and West Africa respectively.

*Karaqeb Large cantankerous castanets that bring the iron section to life. Echoes of the metallic sounds of Mali are in the karaqeb, and it is said to mimic the sounds of the camel’s hooves as it moves across the land.

The strings are made of goat intestine, with the middle string acting as the bass string, it is plucked as a single drone tone.

The Moores by way of Spain, entered Morocco in September 2017. A kind of reverse trail of exploration along an ancient route. Somehow, headed to a land we had never been, we were going home. The final leg of our trip brought us to Essaouira, Morocco. On the surface it appears to be a sleepy beach town on the Atlantic, with morning fog reminiscent of the Oregon Coast. Just under the surface, those fortunate enough to experience the magic of this place, will find an energy bursting with life and corridors full of music. I found myself in a maze, wandering aimlessly through the streets of the medina, moving slower and slower with each step. Thirsty, hungry and tired, I didn’t have much money for souvenirs and wanted to make sure I made just the right purchase. The fog began to roll in over my brain, just like the morning mist that hangs heavy and low in Essaouira, finding its way into every crevice of the medina. As the hustle and bustle around me began to fade into a muffled hum, my sister Janell rounded the corner beaming with excitement. She had, as she always does, found exactly what I was looking for. A music shop, full of handmade instruments made by the owner himself.

We walked briskly down the cobblestone alley until we came to a small shop that looked like a tiny cave, halfway underground no bigger than a walk-in closet. The owner had his workbench set up outside along with several camel instrument skins drying in the sun. Another young man was inside the shop, and invited us in. We looked on in awe at the beautiful instruments, the craftsmanship and ancient energy resonating out of them. I began telling the younger man of my burgeoning love of Gnawa music, and my desire to know and hear more. Several years prior I had without looking come across a CD of my now favorite Maalem Mustafa Baqbou in Seattle at Mama Africa’s, a Kenyan-owned store on Broadway. Feeling adventurous I bought it without listening and never having heard of the Gnawa tradition, it remains one of my most prized musical discoveries. His face lit up, and he began to describe the instruments in detail, and explained to me that he was in fact a part of the Gnawa tradition. A highly studied musician, I could sense his earnest desire to share this knowledge he had spent his life thus far acquiring.

As we talked, the owner approached. He was quiet, focused, and ready to ignore us until the young man explained our interest in the tradition. Just like the young man had, this older gentleman perked up and pulled a magazine from the shelf above my head. He was on the cover, in his full Maalem attire, playing a Guembri similar to the ones hanging all about his shop. I sat in this tiny cave of a shop, with Maalem Najib Al Soudani. In his street clothes, a long-sleeved t-shirt with the words ‘cotton-belt’ printed on it. There were many worlds in his face, beautiful contradictions and crossfades of centuries of contact and still, his face was my own. His words were few, but his eyes spoke volumes and in his sight I felt seen. We posed for a picture together, and his smile revealed a warmth, that kind of warmth that makes all of the effort of your travels worth the sacrifice.

The Gnawa tradition is a style of sacred music, as well as a culture with roots in West and Sub-Saharan Africa. Brought from these lands into slavery within Morocco, people of Gnawa heritage have a distinct musical style and subculture within the diverse array of identities that is Morocco. Gnawa, at its root is the Berber word 'aguinaw' meaning ‘Black men.' Hence, Gnawa means and is synonymous with the Black culture and history of slavery within Morocco. The music is hypnotic, trance-inducing, unyieldingly rhythmic and brimming with soul. Animist roots melded with the Islamic Sufi tradition, make for wondrously electric energy during Gnawa rituals that honor and tow the line between organized religious practice and uninhibited contact with the spirit world.

The Karaqeb*, large iron castanets, keep time and walk the line between rhythm and chaos. Somewhere deep in the drone of the Guembri**, the main instrument played by the Maalem (master musician) that holds the ritual together, I can hear the Delta. Like when you meet a second cousin twice removed, and still somehow your face is their face. As I conceptualize it, Gnawa music is the Blues music of Morocco, a more elaborate predecessor of the Delta Blues of the American South. I do not speak Arabic, but in listening to the lyrics one can feel a depth, an honesty, a richness and a sorrow older than the singers themselves. It is in these sounds and the long, drawn out shouts and hollers of the Maalem, that I see an old black man sitting on a stump under a tree somewhere in Mississippi, Louisiana or maybe Kentucky. Now he is alone and there is no band, just him and his banjo. The language he sings in is somewhere between English and a tongue born of necessity, but the holler is the same. Like in the bateria of the Capoeira tradition, the call to open the ceremony-that holler-calls you home. With an ocean and a continent between us, I gathered up my new instruments and began to meditate on my sister’s life, her story, her blues. Her song is 'Dear sister' (see link below), composed with a guembri, berimbau and karaqeb-3 instruments that have helped many Black people around the world tell their blues century after century.

A world away from home, figuring a path through this grief, in the Land of God the rough and uneven cobblestone led me to the Blues. The Blues is a celebration of a hard-won battle, even though the war continues. The Blues is an arrival of the self coming home. The Blues is a sign of healing in motion. The Blues is a cool glass of water offered along this journey. As my father tells it, you sing the Blues because you can’t be sad while you do it. That place inside where sorrow and joy run hand in hand, this is where the Blues lives. Like a dye cast upon the ether the Blues colors life, and its infinite shades of contrast reveal a heavy known to us all. The weight we carry is lessened as we learn to release those whom we love. The freedom we experience as we learn to accept the ways the Blues flows to us, is life-giving. Who knew, in all this grief, it could sound so good?

Interview: Mykal Rose w/ Sly & Robbie

I had the honor and privilege to conduct this interview in 2013 with music legend Mykal Rose of Black Uhuru. Heartfelt and powerful words on life, music, and the youth.Enjoy!

In collaboration with Aaron Jacob of IndieGenius Media and Selecta Matsui of Entree West Productions.

Standing Rock Water Protectors
Oceti Sakowin Camp, October 2016

The 7 Lakota Values of prayer, respect, compassion, honesty, generosity, humility and wisdom are not just words. They are lived and embodied ways of being that are evident all around you as you enter Oceti Sakowin, the proper name of the indigenous people commonly referred to as Sioux. Oceti Sakowin means Seven Council Fires. There, the embers remain constantly ablaze uniting the people in warmth and light. There is an energy of giving and a depth of spiritual power that reminds us that even our thoughts are to remain sacred, because all positive energy is needed in this fight to protect the water.

   My sister and I arrived at Bismark on Thursday October 27th, one of the most violent days in the struggle against the North Dakota Access Pipeline (DAPL). Camps were raided by law enforcement, Water Protectors were shot with rubber bullets, tazed, equipment was destroyed, sacred items such as drums were thrown in the trash but not before being defecated on, cars were impounded and 142 were jailed and charged with felonies. Elders were separated from the rest of the detained, and put in dog kennels to be transported and scattered among local jails. This struggle is not only physical, it is psychological as well.

   Due to the escalated violence, an agreement for a 'peaceful' weekend was made between Standing Rock and local law enforcement, with the help of an official mediator. It is important to remember that the Water Protectors have been engaged in peaceful and prayerful struggle to stop the DAPL; their agreement to non-violence is an internal one, guided by the elders.

   Allowing the front lines to cool off for the weekend, there was much work to do back at camp. There were kitchens to rebuild, teepees to erect, food to cook, fires to burn, dances to dance, prayers to sing, and direct action to take. People from all over the world continued to pour into the camp to stand in solidarity, and the emotional and spiritual will continued to grow even stronger.

On Saturday evening the sacred fire, or Peta Waken, brought campers together in dance and prayer. Late into the night, hands joined and voices strong, we circled the fire and strengthened our spiritual muscles. However, when the camp quieted and most were asleep, the surrounding hills were set on fire - possibly by DAPL workers. It took all night and into the next morning to douse the fires. Winds are strong through the night, and with the right gust a fire could easily cross the road and level the camp. But fear is not what rules the people of Standing Rock. The word of the elders is respected, and as all awoke to the scorched hills, the message of peace, prayer and love still reigned supreme.

The people of Standing Rock, like so many indigenous people around the world, are engaged in a struggle to not only protect their lands, water supply, and traditions - they are protecting the Earth and sacred ways of being for us all. The ideology of Manifest Destiny is alive and well. The practice of taking and polluting indigenous lands has never stopped. The strength, compassion, respect, wisdom and unfathomable patience witnessed at Standing Rock can serve as a lesson to us all. Moving through life in a prayerful, peaceful and sacred manner is possible.

The DAPL is strong, but the prayers of the Water Protectors are stronger. The message at the exit as you leave the camp reads, NO SPIRITUAL SURRENDER.