Interdisciplinary Arts Conference: PART II

After some enlightening and engaging presentations, lunch was served. I sat with Rory Dickson, a PhD candidate researching Sufism in the West. We then proceeded inside the hall, where Fred Penner would give his keynote address/performance. He sung our favourites, he played the jaw harp, he told stories, he chatted to the little ones sitting on the floor, and he shared something that we will never forget.

Over dinner the night before, Helen spoke of Rumi and Penner was so inspired by the conversation that he found a Rumi poem (translated by Coleman Barks) and composed music to it. He performed it for the first time at the conference. The lyrics posed a question that we were all seeking the answer to, "Who am I". The question is one we pose throughout our lives, and perhaps our answers change depending on our experiences. Artists ask the question often, coming up with new answers through literature, music, dance and visual art. Borges said it best in his Parable of the Palace, claiming the poet "shall never find, the word for the universe." And perhaps that is why we can never find one word for ourselves. We are everything and nothing, simultaneously. To have Fred Penner, who we sang along with as five, six and seven olds, remind us of this truth in our early adulthood, was just the assurance we needed.

After Penner's heartfelt performance, Helen and Laura gifted him with a tapestry depicting the Tree of Life. The roots firmly planted in the earth, the branches reaching for the sky- what greater gift could he receive, and what greater gift could he give? It was no coincidence.

I would perform less than an hour later, and was ready to share what I had learned and forgotten. Forgotten in the sense that in order to perform fully, you must forget every expectation you have of yourself and you must forget that *you* as an individual, exist. This was a rare occurrence for me, as I am a relentless perfectionist and have to consciously stop myself from thinking while I perform. But this, this was different. I was there, but not there. I felt as though the audience was inside of me, and I was speaking through them. There was no separation between us, and my words were in fact, my being. "I" as a physical entity, did not exist. It was as though I had entered a vortex where time had been suspended. Nothing existed but the words. The spotlight was so bright that I could only see darkness infront of me, but in that darkness, there were intricate patterns. I did not know what it meant, and I don't need to.

As I left the stage, emotion overwhelmed me. Helen hugged me and I broke down in tears.

These are the moments we live for, and the moments we stop living to simply exist.

My performance was followed by an enchanting performance by sitar maestro, Irshad Khan, who sang a Rumi poem in English while playing the sitar. It was the perfect trinity to the conference. We had all mentioned Rumi in our performance sets. It was as though he was speaking to us and through us. The dance of the dervish never ended and never began. It is the act of the earth revolving around the sun, as natural as breathing.

It is quite a challenge for a young writer like myself, trying to revive an ancient poetic form (old school, as we know it) in an industry where the literary darlings are city dwellers with a hipster aesthetic. I was trying to stay motivated and remember why I was doing what I was doing. The validation I was looking for was found in the colleagues and contemporaries I met at the WLU Interdisciplinary Arts Conference. They are the ones who came before me, who will come after me, and who I will, Inshallah, have the great privilege of collaborating with again. They reminded me of the fact that we are interconnected, that we are moving towards a world that craves unity, diversity, peace and true art. A world that is waking up to a new reality. We may be Greek, Mormon, Sufi, Hindu- We may be from Kenya, Nebraska, Kitchener or Winnipeg, but we are all striving to answer that unanswerable question. "WHO AM I?"

I am life in a circle
I am spinning and turning
with the music eternal
I have wings to fly
That's the answer to the question
Who am I


RUMI

(sung by Fred Penner at the Wake Up Conference- Wilfred Laurier University, March 26th, 2011)

Interdisciplinary Arts Conference: PART I

This past weekend, I attended and participated in The Interdisciplinary Arts Conference, held by Wilfrid Laurier University's Religion and Culture Society. My experience with the students and staff of WLU reminded me of the fact that academic institutions can be collaborative, warm and open. We often associate universities with authority, but forget that learning is also interactive.

I first met Helen Reid, President of WLU's Religion and Culture Society, in Meena Sharify-Funk's Islamic Mysticism class. I was conducting a guest lecture on Sufi Poetry, and Helen had a keen interest and understanding of Sufi philosophy. Since then, Helen and I have chatted on the phone, discussing Jung, the state of the world, reality vs. non-reality and of course, the IAC Conference.

Let's just say that Helen knows how to get a job done. Her passion, dedication and chutzpah secured beloved childhood icon, Fred Penner, as the guest of honour for the conference. She also invited sitar maestro, Irshad Khan, to play for the finale concert. I was recruited as the opening act for Irshad Khan.

When I arrived in Waterloo, I was greeted by Professor Meena Sharify-Funk, a true sufi soul, and her beloved family including her bearded collie, Sami. We were invited to Helen and her partner Rob's house for a welcome dinner. Helen and Rob's house is the kind of house you dream of having. Coloured glass vases, tapestries, bookshelves, instruments, artifacts and ornaments from Greece and India, brightly coloured textured walls, windows with intricate stained glass designs-- each room in their house seemed to be transported from another country. I met some lovely people including Zabeen, a fellow Ismaili who had just returned from India, stylish Laura, Vice President of the Religion and Culture Society, and Fred Penner, who was frantically looking for a pouch he had left behind in rehearsal.

After the croissants were eaten, the homemade calamari was consumed and the pouch was found, we sat around Penner and discussed our childhoods, the pressures on youth today, spirituality and activism. Helen spoke about the sacred circles in Sufism, likening them to the dance of the universe. Penner spoke of himself as an anarchist, stating that artists are anarchists, because they see the world for what it is and refuse to accept the status quo (I hardly think he was referring to himself as the kind of anarchist that wears all black and spray paints government properties and corporate buildings).

The next day, Saturday, was a day of seminars, presentations and performances. Helen presented her paper on Sufism, her voice heightening with excitement and newfound revelations. At the end of the presentation, she played a youtube clip of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan singing a qawwali. A lady stood up from her seat and began to whirl.

One Year Later: The MJ Legacy

One year ago today, I was preparing for surgery.

As a performer and artist, the possibility not being able to perform for over a month scared me. Although I had been through many surgeries before, I had blocked out the post-surgery pain, and what it felt like to recover. That, coupled with the fact that my mentor and teacher had unexpectedly passed away the month before, left me feeling less than optimistic.

Thoughts of dying on the operating table plagued me, even though I knew that the procedure was fairly routine (albeit, related to the heart). What scared me more than dying was the fact that I haven't *lived* my life yet.

As I was checking facebook, I noticed an alarming update from a friend, "Michael Jackson is dead". It couldn't be. It was impossible. It's a hoax. But I had to know for sure. I turned on the news, and the anchors were talking about MJ being admitted to the hospital, but were not certain of his condition. So there's still hope, I thought. People have survived heart attacks before. Within half an hour, the world's fears were confirmed. Michael Jackson was dead.

Michael Jackson was the man who got me through high school. I was the kid who sat in the corner, doodling and writing. The one who people thought was strange, and who tried too hard. I got in fights, I was verbally attacked, I suffered academically, I got kicked out of class.

In my second year of high school, I wrote a composition, about how popularity and reputation mean nothing, and that I had revisited the music and message of Michael Jackson, particularly the song "Man in the Mirror". When I was a little kid, I had watched "Moonwalker" over and over again, and was mesmerized by the first scene-- the thousands of lights held up by the crowd, Michael spinning like he was suspended in mid air. By the end of my composition, I had vowed to be a voice for change, and to view others as my sisters and brothers.

I used my poetry and spoken word to channel my frustration and anger, much like Michael, or any artist for that matter, uses their art. He became my sole inspiration, and I *studied* his performances and videos- as he once said, "The greatest education in the world is watching the masters at work."

I spent my lunches in the library, listening to Michael Jackson and working on a million and one ideas, poems and, of course, homework. I graduated high school a year early.

10 years later, I revisit his music, his performances and his message- and have come to understand his genius in a new way- not just as a fan or admirer, but as an artist. So often, on stage, I have 'thought' during a performance. The thinking behind the performing stems from the fear of forgetting my words and my actions, wondering what the audience is thinking and how they are perceiving me. There are brief moments, and rare times, however, when I haven't thought at all. The words come, the actions become ritualistic and organic, my voice is grounded from a place deep within.

Michael Jackson never thought when he was on stage. He FELT. He knew himself to the point of *trusting* himself on stage, he internalized his actions and his words to the point of them becoming part of his very essence-- and that is the most difficult thing for a performer to achieve. That state of complete awareness and abandon is a state of sheer perfection. It is tapping in to a creative wellspring, being yourself in the truest form and yet being one with everything and everyone.

As I sat on the couch stunned by what was unfolding infront of me, I realized that the saddest part about Michael Jackson's death is that he would no longer create. It was the one thing that kept him alive- despite the cacophony and chaos around him, he found a stillness and clarity in expression.

Instead of fearing my surgery, Michael Jackson's death taught me to live without fearing death. He gave everything to his audience, and I haven't yet. He left his heart and soul on stage, and I still take mine with me. And although he will no longer be able to create new performances and songs, he is a continual source of creation. Because of him, people create.

He is our phoenix-- every time someone creates after being inspired by his songs, performances and poems, he rises from the ashes.

The only way to keep him alive is to keep his message alive through our creations.

Rest in Peace, MJ.