What Makes a Baba

The dance company had brought 

the choreographer back to refresh 

and fine-tune the piece he had set 

on the dancers seven years ago.

In a voice raspy from passion and

instruction, he led the group through 

the vision given to him for their 

bodies to absorb, release, transmute,

and portend, to build and be anticipation, 

to embody character, to lift and proclaim,

to frame our joy and song and pain

in rhythmic rotations, pelvic incantations,

shoulder roll, eyes hard right, swing low, swing

wide, sweet stock-sure grin, sweep wide

to bring it all in and serve it back

reimagined, attended, attuned 

to the key of your soul in mine, 

spirit made flesh made spirit set free 

from dancer’s aching heels to

our calloused hearts.

As I and the rest of the rehearsal 

audience were granted this ‘behind 

the scenes’ preview, I watched the 

seasoned and new dancers receive

instruction, correction, again, repeat, 

dance, repeat, dance until the timing 

and moves are true to the story 

enlivening the choreographer’s dream.

It was a special and rare treat to see artists

in the act of creating. 

Well, mind you, dancers  

and choreographers specifically; 

trust, the ‘writing process’, is not 

all that riveting to watch,

praying, pacing, crying, drinking, and cannabis,

all have their place but not so much a rehearsal

you'd want to attend, (well, most of you).

In the car, on our way home, I asked my spouse for

the choreographer’s name. He repeated his name,

then said that he was also known by “Baba” and I

rolled my eyes so hard, I nearly dislodged the sun

visor. This behavior of mine, someone with photos

and a murti of a man we call “Baba” on my altar.

True, Maharaj-ji was a great teacher and saint, as

were others we revere, and yet I readily admit to

growing weary of overuse, I’ll say for now, of

prematurely given deification and titles before their

time, of “Ma’s” who mother unease, and gurus who

gather grandeur, of folks too quickly called

“teacher” or “mother” or “father”, not unlike

the word ‘Christian’, especially when self-identified.

I tend default to Maya Angelou’s classic response

to self-inflation. When someone would announce

themselves proudly as “Christian”, she’d reply,

“Really, already?”, calling our attention to its

definition of being Christ-like.

But then I remembered something the

choreographer said. There was a correction he

made and it went by quickly, we were all glad,

so most might have missed it but it hit like

a sermon sung straight to me when he said,

“If you lower yourself,                                                   you can travel further.”

Exactly, that's why I quickly wrote it down.

“If you lower yourself,                                                   you travel further,” 

That's some heavy should you know the difference 

between knowing what is real and what isn't and

most often, we reply “something we can feel”

but listen to this closely, there's a lot we can feel

that is in no way real, or beneficial, trust there

can be a feel-good part but is the something, 

something that can be sustained, something that

will sustain you, that will honor the Truth

you’re here to reveal?

“Go Lower, to go further,” he said, and I thought

of mysteries and truths, of all the dancer’s egos

submerged to make a story of broken levies and

drowning come alive, of Maharaj-ji in his blanket,

of Jesus on the donkey, of getting low and going

lower, to be lifted up life depends on going lower,

yet, I remembered how, even at seven,

our goddaughter knew the way to find life

is by getting low, the way to track an animal,

the way back Home, is close to the ground,

dirt low, one old song called it “miry clay”,

good word, that, “miry”. 

It could be that when we're too big or scared

or both, to “go low”, to relax our guard,

our bouncer and bitterness, to not know,

to let go low; difference alert being:

expectation of low to risen without miry clay

is one bound to disappoint as it doesn't exist,

action devoid of grace leaves debts to be paid,

so to move forward, we go low, like in a cavern

or a fire, down here you can breathe,

down here you’re safer from pestilence and flame,

low where you've forgotten who you're

‘supposed to be’ into mercy Me in you with

wrists flipped, hands on your hips and chest

and thigh, head tilt, and “knowing” grin,

dancers moving together to witness life,

in its beauty and tragedy in rebirth really 

really low, really, really beautiful low, 

writhing, miry but malleable

in the choreographer's creations and performers’

minds gods muse, ancestors brood or bless,

posse, bloodline to spirit to stage telling an old,

old story of how getting low is rising above;

think Clarence Jordan or Dr. King, not Joel Osteen,

we have so much more we have to share besides

“our best life”.

And now, with my slightly “lower”,

wisdom-watered mind, I thought I’d probably found

another ingredient for what it takes to be called,

“Baba”, choreographer or Indian saint.

It's infinite patience that makes a sadu,

forever reminding us to go lower,

than our slow ego or busy mind,

lower than our never again shattered still held

fearful tender hardened heart broken on stage

in our reach for rousing our roar,

for hitting our soul body's paydirt iron ore

sharpening iron joins us together with

audiences in presence making us all free here.

-PreetamDas Kirtana