my understanding of existentialism as it relates to meditative practices/an account of the concert i went to this weekend

I've been trying to think of a way to put into words what I've been left feeling after the concert that I went to this weekend. I keep trying to wait for the feelings to formulate themselves properly into concepts so I can adequately write them down. But the more I wait, the less raw/visceral/cutting they become. And I don't want to lose that feeling, because that feeling drives transparency. 

I have rarely felt such a hunger for catharsis as I do now. But I know that it won't come, not fully at least, because I feel so unsettled. This frequently happens to me after witnessing/being a part of the beauty of natural environments and/or profound artistic and musical expositions. (I've written about a previous experience here.) But there is something about what I witnessed, what I was a part of, this weekend that has irrevocably changed me. I feel that the very matter of my being has been set to swirling in a way that it never has before. And it's terrifying. It's exhilarating, but mostly terrifying. I am so afraid that I will lose this feeling, this fear, this joy, this momentum. Which is why I have to try my best to write it down now even though I'm not too sure how to articulate or express what I am feeling. 


***long exhale***

This post can continue in one of two ways:

1) With an exploration of my understanding of existentialism as it relates to meditative practices, or

2) With an account of the concert I went to this weekend. 

I think I'll start with 2), as again, it serves as a more gradual jumping-off point.

An account of the concert I went to this weekend

This weekend I attended Elora Riverfest, a music festival in Elora, Ontario. I had never been to a music festival before in my life. (I know, I know.) Really, though, the entire reason I wanted to go was to see a band called Moon Hooch. Moon Hooch are a three-piece band who met at jazz school and got their start busking in NYC outside of art galleries and in the subway system. (I always joke and say they're the most underground band I know. Ha-ha.) Originally they started out as Mike Wilbur on sax, Wenzl McGowen on sax, and James Muschler on drums. They soon evolved to incorporate other instruments, such as synthesizers, EWIs, and pylons. (Yes, pylons.) Their later albums incorporated elements of electronic music, vocals, and post-production, but to this day they still maintain the guts and backbone of that three-piece sax-sax-drums combo that captivated audiences on subway platforms and on the sidewalks of NYC.

I stumbled across Moon Hooch a few years ago while hopping through videos of outstanding street musicians on YouTube for fun and inspiration. I came across this live video of them playing on a hill somewhere in Middle America and was just blown away. There was something that immediately just captivated me about the music. I think it was the combination of the incredible musicianship coupled with the raw screams and visceral pounding created by the instruments. I couldn't believe that it was just three people with acoustic instruments creating this sound, so powerful despite the quality of the audio recording. I couldn't believe that there could be such a perfect combination of instrumental mastery, unbridled aggression, jazz complexity, pop sensibility, and the chugging drive of four-on-the-floor dance music. Something about this mish-mash of genres/feelings/styles, that made me want to grit my teeth and growl at the same time as close my eyes and float away, just got inside of me and stayed there. 

Looking deeper into the band and their catalogue of music, I was not surprised to learn that one of their albums was called This is Cave Music. Of course it was called that, because that's just what it was. Cave Music. I was interested also to learn that the band has a commitment to environmental sustainability (all three members are vegans and the band is officially carbon neutral) as well as meditation and spirituality (all three members are active practitioners of meditation, and they cite this as being intertwined with their music and a catalyst for their dedication and creativity). 

I continued to enjoy their music, often playing it at ungodly volumes while dancing around my apartment in my boxers (one time I thought my roommate was out while I was doing this, when she was actually home in her room - that was interesting for both of us) or in my headphones as I bopped down the street (it always takes every ounce of willpower in my body not to physically dance down crowded sidewalks as my brain and my guts are flooded with the incredible aggressive/beautiful sounds). I showed their music to many of my friends who were (I like to think) as impressed and moved. 

However, nothing could prepare me for actually seeing them live. Two days before they were meant to play at the 2018 Toronto Jazz fest in June, by the grace of me liking their Facebook page, I learned that they were to play ten minutes down the road from me. I nearly fell out of my chair. I couldn't believe that they were coming to Toronto, and what luck that I'd happened to see the Facebook post about it! 

My mandate, as always, was to Throw the Fuck Down. Dancing has been (for a significant part of my life - once I got over my crippling teen self-consciousness, that is) one of my favourite things to do, one of the best ways to connect with and lose myself in music, and perhaps the best way for me to to enter a state of Flow. However, that day the crowd had different ideas, perhaps with it being a TD Jazz Fest demographic and all. They were, to say the least, subdued. (It probably didn't help that there were tables all over where the dance floor should have been. Rookie move, Jazz Fest.) However, I noticed that there were two freaky-looking strangers bopping along next to me, so I recruited them to help me create an impromptu dance floor. We moved the tables out of the way, and before we knew it, the three of us became six, the six became twelve, and much of what happened after is a blur because I was just so caught up in the music, in the movement. How could anyone be still and listen to this, I thought? How could anyone not have the primitive creature living inside of them awakened at the sound of all this growling and throbbing?

That show happened to occur on the Saturday of Pride weekend, so I left the show just floored, but didn't have adequate time to process it, as I went to a pretty awesome Pride party after and threw down in a queer bar until 3am with some awesome people. (I danced so hard I broke the screen of my phone.) I thought for sure that that was going to be the only opportunity in a long while for me to see this band, as they are from New York and as we know, even most big US bands hardly deign to come to Canada, let alone the far lesser-known bands. 

So, you can imagine my absolute exultation when I learned that they were going to be playing at Riverfest! I promptly bought my ticket that day and booked my campsite. I had a bit of a time trying to find a friend to come with me, but honestly I was ready to go by myself if I couldn't find anyone. Luckily my good friend Shae was able to join last minute and came along on the adventure with me. 

As Saturday evening and their set approached, I repeatedly gushed to Shae about how I was feeling about seeing Moon Hooch again. "I'm ready." "Wait, I'm not ready." "Are you ready?" "Oh god I'm not ready." And so on. I didn't want to overshare and take away from an unswayed first experience for her, but at the same time I couldn't contain my excitement when I declared, "I am going to dance harder than I've ever danced in my life."

We made our way to the stage where they were playing and found a spot at the front. As they came onto the stage, the entire crowd (a large contingent of which were previously sitting on blankets on the grass), rose to their feet and pushed forward, beckoned and encouraged by those of us who had already taken up residence at the front. 

Here is where it gets hazy. I can't describe the experience of seeing them live at that performance. I just can't. 

Okay, I'll try.

It's so hard to describe the effect that their music had on me in that moment, on the crowd. As Shae put it later, "It was like something primal woke up inside of me." I danced like an insane person for the entire set. Looking at the crowd, it looked like we were all taking part in some sort of ecstatic Dyonisian ritual. Just madness. (The best kind of madness.) I felt that the music was inside of me, inside my guts, my lungs. The bass made the hair on my arms rise up. I felt like I was possessed. During a few moments, I felt like I left my body.  At one moment I was moved to tears. Frequently, I just had to lift my arms and stare upward at the sky in order to fully soak in what I was experiencing. I was as present as I have ever been in my own body, in my own being, in my entire life.

At the same time, little uncomfortable thoughts kept popping into my head. "How on earth can I have more of this in my life?" "Could I possibly create something like this?" "I wish I could create music regularly in my life." "There is so much that I need to change to get to where I want to be." But each time a thought popped up, I brought myself back. I told myself, "Stay immersed," and it was an easy order to follow because of the sheer visceral magnitude of what I was experiencing.

Afterwards, I had to lay down. (The security guard told me to get up, though, because it looked like I was drunk. I guess in a way, I was.)

Shae and I had the privilege of talking with Wenzl and Mike after the set. (I wish I'd gotten a chance to speak more with James - I don't know where he ran off to after their set. But I am pleased that we did get have a brief conversation that was 50% non-sequitur and 50% innuendo.) Most of that is a blur as well. I was so high, and not from substances. I was bold enough to ask them to sign my (sweaty, disgusting) band t-shirt, which they kindly did, and even bolder to ask them if Shae and I could buy them drinks after the show. They graciously declined, citing being hungry, over-stimulated, and tired. (Plus, Wenzl wanted to go into the woods and meditate for 5 hours. No big.) I really just wanted to talk to them more, and understand what could possibly make three human beings (who are really by all appearances just very approachable, nice, albeit passionate guys) have the capability of creating such magic, of doing something like that to a crowd. 

I wanted to ask so many questions. I wanted to know what it felt like to be able to move people in that way, to bring people together in ecstatic madness, in movement, in disinhibition and oneness. I wanted to learn anything I could about how to tap into one fraction of the energy that they harnessed and created that afternoon. I wanted to know how I could possibly even start thinking about creating something that visceral, that magical, that moving. 

An exploration of my understanding of existentialism as it relates to meditative practices

I've written about existentialism on this god damn blog so many times, what's one more time, eh?

I have considered myself to be an existentialist since I was quite young. In short, existentialism, as I understand it, involves belief in both a) the absolute meaninglessness of human existence from an objective point of view, couched in terms of the inevitability of death and the smallness of our lives against the vast canvas of the universe, and b) the absolute power of any given subject to find and create meaning in their own lives, from a subjective point of view, given our unbridled capacity for choice within our means, love, connection, passion, creativity, and wonder. 

My understanding of existentialism is that we are constantly seeking meaning in a world that is ultimately meaningless. The genesis of meaning always lies within us, within our actions, in what we choose, do, and are. Therein lies the overwhelming propensity towards existential anxiety. It's the despair and triumph that comes with absolute freedom; the flip-flopping between the sense of empowerment and the sense of disempowerment that comes from the very same idea: That "I alone am responsible for myself."

While my previous posts on this topic have focused on concepts such as the awareness of death, balancing narcissism and nihilism, and the importance of finding meaning and purpose in life, I would like this time to focus on the concept of striving. I touch on this in a previous post, which I will very gauchely quote now: 

The pursuit of meaning and fulfillment is necessarily asymptotic. Unless you believe in the kind of spiritual enlightenment espoused by certain systems of belief, Buddhism for example, it is difficult to conceive of a state of being of pure satisfaction and fulfillment. The spirit always strives, no matter what.

Striving is the natural state of the spirit. This is why happiness is so often short-lived; a great career move becomes mundane in a year, we feel a 'seven-year-itch' in long-term relationships, even travelling to new places can start to feel routine if you do it enough. Sometimes I even experience striving prematurely - seconds after making a good move in my life, a little voice will pop up and say, "You know you're just going to be dissatisfied in a few days." Thanks, brain.

I firmly believe that the natural state of the spirit is to strive. But, as I alluded to in that quote above, there are certain systems of belief that purport that, if existence is striving, and striving is suffering, then existence is suffering. And so, the only way to avoid suffering is to reach a state of non-striving. 

In Buddhism, the four Noble Truths (to my understanding) all surround this concept of striving - 

The truth of suffering (Dukkha)

The truth of the origin of suffering (Samudāya)

The truth of the cessation of suffering (Nirodha)

The truth of the path to the cessation of suffering (Magga)

Basically, the mandate of mindfulness, meditation, and enlightenment, is an absolute state of being and noticing, rather than desiring or wanting. It is an absolute state of non-striving. To me, this seems at odds with existentialism. If the natural state of the spirit is to strive, how are we to reach a state of non-striving?

There seems to be an impasse here, given the premises:

1) The natural state of the spirit is to strive

2) Striving is suffering

3) Therefore, the natural state of the spirit is to suffer.

4) Given the above, the pathway to non-suffering is non-striving.

But how the hell are we supposed to reach a state of non-striving if our natural state is to strive?! This is where my brain has always started to collapse. This is why I (until recently) I always rejected my ability to ever understand or partake in meditation. How am I just supposed to undo this natural state of my spirit, body, and mind?

With all this striving constantly bouncing around in my being, it's no wonder that I am a very anxious person. (As likely are you, but don't worry - existential anxiety is not pathological. More on that here.) I am a strong believer in Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) and practice it regularly, on myself and with the people I see in my therapy practice. Furthermore, as mindful and non-judgemental awareness of one's emotions is a cornerstone of Dialectical Behavioural Therapy (DBT), I've necessarily developed an understanding of how to practice this within a constrained space (namely, emotions). However, as I've stated, I also believe that the natural state of the spirit is one of striving. And this constant, unchecked striving, although normal, can get exhausting.

So a few months ago, after a lifetime of feeling existentially anxious, and after previously constantly rejecting the idea that mindfulness and meditation could be for me, I said to myself, "What the hell? Might as well try." 

I've been cultivating a regular meditation practice for the past few months now, and let me tell you, it's fucking hard. I have no idea if I'm doing it correctly. I've been trying my own personal practice unaided, following guided meditations, reading a guide by one of the masters, and attending free classes in Toronto. And I still don't think I'm doing it properly. 

But the nice thing about it is, it's okay if I'm not doing it properly. I can have the thought, "I'm not doing this properly," when I'm meditating, 1000 times, and as long as I respond with "That's okay, come back to your breath," 1001 times, I think I'm doing okay.

I think I am starting to come to my own understanding of how existentialism and meditation (or, states of constant striving and a state of non-striving) can co-exist. It's hard for me to articulate, but for me it all comes down to patience, self-compassion, humor, and perseverance. I still have a very loud mind when I try to sit, and my mind wanders constantly, but as long as I keep committed, keep smiling fondly at my folly, and keep bringing it back, I feel like I'm getting somewhere. Plus, there is enough evidence about the benefits of mindfulness and meditation to keep me committed for the time being, at any rate.

If this blog is anything to go by, my whole life, it seems, is about resolving (or at least just sitting with) dichotomies. Honouring the dialectic. Having A and not-A coexist, and coming to terms with this tension and the mind-exploding feeling this tension produces, without it completely undoing me. 

This is what I was reminded of at the concert I went to this weekend. I was as present as I've ever felt - as rooted into existence; as connected to the universe; as existing in pure awareness, sensation and movement, as I've ever felt - and yet, I still had that sense of striving bubbling up within me. "How to create something like this?" "How to have more of this in my life?" "I don't want this to ever end!" And so on. But each time such an unsettling thought bubbled up inside of me, I just told myself, "Be here, now." I couldn't help but be brought back to the moment, to the movement, to the music. I couldn't help but get sucked in to pure experiencing, due to the very (visceral, powerful, mind-blowing) nature of what I was experiencing. I was both there, and not. I was immersed, and I was observer. I was purely happy in that moment, and I was hungry for so much more. I was both striving, and non-striving. 

After the music ended I lay in savasana on the ground for a few minutes trying to just maintain my presence of mind. But it was so hard. The little striving-voice kept popping up, over and over. "It's over, how sad." "When is the next time I can have this?" "How can I create this?" "There is so much I need to change in my life to make this happen." And so on. But I tried, god I tried, to just come back to myself, to feel the endorphins swirling around my body, to breathe it all in.

Striving is suffering, but striving is also essential. It's what moves us forward in life, keeps us working towards our goals, working towards finding meaning and purpose in our choices and deeds. It keeps us learning and growing every day of our lives, it gets us out of bed in the morning.

Striving is essential, but striving is also suffering. It's important to just be present, sometimes. To remember that it's okay to just be, to not have to be anywhere, to be doing anything, to be working towards anything. It's important to remember that we can take a little time just to lie in the infinite cradle of the universe and feel at home there. 

There is perhaps more in common between existentialism and meditative practices than is afforded at first glance. I will continue to do the work to reconcile the perceived differences, find commonalities, apply these concepts to my life, and most of all, to practice hanging in the balance between two seemingly opposing philosophies, and sitting with that tension.